


First Taste Of Love, Bittersweet

by eyeus



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Childhood Promises, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Crime, First Date, First Kiss, First Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Rickyl Writers' Group, Rickyl Writers' Group February 2016 Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have to <i>promise</i> to come back,” Rick says. He is not crying, he is <i>not</i>. Though no one could blame him if he was, because he knows ‘moving away’ means his bestest friend will be gone forever. “<i>Pinky-promise</i>!”</p><p>“Pinky promises are for babies,” Daryl sniffs. “We gotta seal the deal with somethin’ <i>else</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From Hello

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the RWG February 2016 Challenge, with the theme of “Firsts”. Title from Deana Carter’s _Strawberry Wine_. 
> 
> I was hoping to have this finished and posted before the end of February, back when this was only supposed to be 1000 words of Rickyl fluff. But then this happened. :D;;; Nevertheless, I hope it’s still enjoyable!
> 
> I imagine Rick to be about five years old at the start of this fic, and Daryl around seven or eight. The lovely legolastariel has also directed me to a graphic of how they might look at such an age, which can be seen [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/Leedus%20Babies.jpg~original).

~

The words ‘first official day of summer vacation’ don’t mean much to Rick, considering he’s only been in and out of various kindergartens his parents wanted to try, and he won’t start first grade until fall. So every _day_ to him is summer vacation.

His sister Robin doesn’t see it that way, of course.

“You,” Robin declares, as she stares down at Rick, “are too small to take _anywhere_.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and jerks a nod at the playground she’s walked him to. “You’re gonna have to stay here while I meet my friends.”

This is totally unfair, because Rick comes up to her elbow if he strains his neck really hard, and he’s pretty sure the rollerskating rink Robin’s ditching him for has skates in his size too. 

“Mama said you’re supposed to watch me while you hang out with your friends,” says Rick. He wrinkles his nose at the thought though, because all Robin and her friends talk about when they come over is makeup and boys and who’s hot on TV. The thought of a whole afternoon with them, even if there are soda pops involved, makes something inside him cringe. 

Yes, the playground here’s starting to look like the best alternative.

“Mom won’t _know_ ,” Robin says nastily, “and you’re not gonna tell her.” She smacks a fist into her palm with a meaty _thwack_ , a clear sign of _tell, and you’ll be sorry_.

Rick blinks, undeterred. He knows what that fist-palm motion means, and it really just translates into a nasty pinch from under the dinner table, and he can withstand that if there’s a far greater reward to be had here. “What’ll you give me?” he says instead, standing his ground.

“Are you serious?” Robin says, her mouth dropping open. As if she can’t believe her little brother’s learned the art of extortion. When Rick simply stands there, blinking up at her with wide, blue eyes, she sighs, impatient, with a quick glance at her watch. “Okay,” she says, giving in. Huffs hard enough to shift the chestnut curls on her brow. “ _Okay_. I’ll give you…” 

She rifles through her pocket and pulls out a tube of old Lip Smacker that she keeps for the tasty strawberry smell, a tube of real lipstick she swiped from their mom, a piece of gum, and a couple slips of crumpled paper. “This.” Robin hands him a crumpled dollar bill, from her small stash of pocket money. “Here.”

Rick knows from experience that this is called _hush money_ , but before he can barter his way through more of her goods—the strawberry Lip Smacker tube being his prime target—Robin waves, already backing out of the playground lot and onto the grassy school field. 

“I’ll be back at dinnertime to pick you up,” she calls, before taking off through the gap in the wire fence. “So you better be here!”

With a sigh, Rick stares at the crumpled dollar bill in his hand, before tucking it into the pocket of his denim overalls. He’s not sure what he can do with it, since there aren’t any shops nearby and he’s not allowed to cross the street by himself yet. But there _are_ a few things to do on the playground, so he decides he’ll make the most of that.

There’s no one fighting for the swings at the moment, so Rick struggles his way onto one—popping one of the buttons on his overalls with the effort, until one of the straps hangs down, a sad, flapping thing—and plants himself firmly on the seat. Tries to swing himself, but only manages to rock up a feeble arc, because his legs are too short to touch the ground and the bigger kids have kicked away all the gravel he can dig his toes into.

Rick looks around the playground for someone who might be able to help him, but the only kids around are shorter than him, and he’ll probably bowl them over if they give him a push, anyway. And the moms hanging around the fringes of the playground with their baby strollers? They aren’t going to leave their babies unattended to give him a push. So there’s really no one else.

Well—that’s not quite true. 

There _are_ a group of boys circling the bike racks, all seated on fancy, shiny road bikes. And they’re all older and taller than Rick—taller than his sister, even—though Rick’s not sure they’ll be able to hear him call over the ruckus they’re making. It sounds like they’re teasing someone, taunting, but Rick can’t make it out from so far away.

After a moment, they all laugh, a terrible, jeering sound, and ride away, along with any of Rick’s chances of getting a push on his swing. Except when the cloud of dust they’ve kicked up settles, Rick can just about make out the outline of a boy, left behind, unable to catch up to his friends because he doesn’t have a bike of his own.

Since Rick doesn’t have a bike either, and he’s half-moored on the swings anyway, the only option he has is to gape at the boy who’s been left in the cloud of his friends’ dust. 

The boy scowls at him and stuffs his hands in his pockets, his jeans and ragged T-shirt far too big for his scrawny frame. “What’re _you_ starin’ at, pipsqueak?” he hollers.

Rick would scuff his sneaker into the ground, kicking up dirt in a way that looked cool, if his legs were long enough to touch the ground. As it is, all he manages to do is scuff his sneakers against each other, the Velcro strips making a soft _burrr_ noise. 

“Can you give me a push?” Rick asks. He has to gather every ounce of his courage to keep his gaze steady and look the boy in the eye. “Please? Just one’s enough!” One will be more than enough to get Rick going, especially if he can keep the momentum from the first push going.

“What’s in it for me?” the boy says. He slinks closer, narrowing his eyes, suspicious.

Rick thinks for a moment, and reaches into his shoe, where he keeps all of his prized possessions, because his shoe is the last place Robin looks when she wants to take anything of his. “I got this bubblegum,” he says, holding it out. Like it’s some kind of peace offering. “You can have it.”

The boy shuffles closer, inspecting the bubblegum in Rick’s palm, its wrapper half-melted into the candy itself. He must decide it passes muster somehow, because he slaps his hand against Rick’s to shake on it. “Deal,” he declares solemnly, making the bubblegum disappear into his overgrown sleeve.

For a moment, Rick’s afraid that the boy will simply run off with his treasure and leave him stranded at the swings. But then the boy’s making sure Rick’s firmly planted on the swing, that he’s holding on tightly enough, and there’s a breathy _are you ready_ , before Rick feels himself being lifted into the air. 

“Yes!” Rick calls out. There’s a gentle push at his back, which is nice, because Robin usually shoves him so hard Rick falls out of the seat and onto the gravel, where he has to bite his lip and try not to cry. But this— _this_ is different. 

There’s another push, harder this time. Rick can feel himself building momentum with each arc of the swing along its frame, and it’s not long before he’s sailing through the air, letting out a whoop of joy, wild and free as the wind gusts through his hair, because he feels like he’s _flying_ which is _fantastic_.

The boy stands to the side and watches Rick swing back and forth for a little while, and when Rick’s had enough of flying, he shakes his head when his new friend makes to come forward and give him another push. 

“Let’s do somethin’ else,” Rick says, struggling to slow the swing down. His feet dangle uselessly in the air, and Rick is more than grateful when his friend catches the chains to slow his arc, and helps him off the swing. It’s far better than taking an ungraceful monkey leap off the swing and scraping his hands and knees when he lands.

“What do you wanna do?”

Rick cycles quickly through _jump on the bridge_ , _climb up the rope ladder_ , or some variation of _play with the slides_ , before deciding that there’s something else he should say first. Something that’s far more important than what they’re going to do next. “My name’s Rick,” he says breathlessly as he stumbles away from the swing, his eyes bright. “What’s yours?” 

He’d wanted to ask earlier, but his instincts told him that it was safer to make one exchange at a time. Bubblegum for a swing push. A name for a name. Careful negotiation with no fast movements, the same approach he’d had to take when convincing the skittish little hamster from kindergarten class to nuzzle into his hand. And since he’s really got a chance to look now, Rick takes in more details of his new friend, and what he sees surprises him.

His friend’s grey shirt looks old and faded, like it’s been washed a million times, and his jeans are torn in several places, loose white threads hanging from the knees and at the cuffs, where they look like they’ve been trimmed to fit; in fact, the only thing that seems to _actually_ fit is the small black vest that sits across his shoulders, though even that hangs below his waist, like it was meant for someone older, someone bigger. But what surprises Rick is how _none_ of that dims the brightness of his friend’s eyes, blue as the sky above them, or his hair, a burnt-caramel brown that turns a lovely butter-yellow when the sun strikes it just right. His lashes, cornsilk-fine against his cheeks. 

There is no other word for it, Rick decides—his new friend is very, _very_ pretty.

“What’s yours?” Rick asks again, when no answer is forthcoming. Reaches out to poke the boy in the belly, to bring him out of his self-induced trance.

The boy startles with a jolt and stares at Rick, like no one’s ever asked him before, or ever cared, and this time it’s him who scuffs a toe into the ground. “I’m Daryl,” he says finally.

Rick approaches slowly, and reaches his tiny hand into Daryl’s overgrown sleeve, until he’s found another hand inside, soft and surprisingly warm, and shakes it. “Nice to meet you!” he beams, something his parents have taught him to say, in preparation for first grade. Apparently these are niceties he’ll have to know if he wants to make it anywhere, his dad says.

Daryl nods, swallowing hard, like he still hasn’t gotten over his initial surprise. “Yeah,” he says. “Um. Same.”

Rick’s nods back and keeps on beaming, delighted at how Daryl doesn’t tower over him, or look down at him like his sister and so many others, since he’s only about a head taller than Rick

 _Yes_ , Rick decides. _Daryl is just the right height_. In fact, Daryl is just the right everything, because he listens when Rick talks, doesn’t call him a baby like Robin does, and Rick senses an odd sort of kindness to everything Daryl does, even if one can’t tell it at first glance.

Daryl’s the first one to break the silence between them in the end, though he doesn’t break their contact, like he’s not sure when it’s appropriate to let go after shaking hands. “So,” he says, “we gonna play another game now? Or just stare at each other all day?”

Rick’s face breaks into an even wider grin. “Come on,” he says, tugging Daryl along with him, as he points to the far end of the playground. “I’ll race you to the slides!”

~

They end up playing a few rounds of tag afterward, though Rick has to stop once, to inform Daryl crossly that taking off his shoe and beaning Rick with it from across the playground does not _count_ , which earns him a rather sullen _sorry_. Then Daryl comes up with the idea of climbing their way across the playground without touching the ground once, and they make a game of it, pretending the gravel is a deep sea all around them, and the sea is full of piranhas.

It’s a new, exciting kind of fun, because Rick’s played _Floor Is Lava_ with Robin and her friends, but he’s never played _Sea is Piranha_. 

Rick’s toe dips into the treacherous sea at one point in time, when he misses a rung on the monkey bars and Daryl has to haul him back into the safety of their ‘ship’. “That didn’t count,” says Rick, his mouth curled into the tiniest pout. “I was only in the water for a _second_!”

But Daryl won’t have any of Rick’s excuses. “Tell that to the piranhas,” he says, trying to hide a grin and failing. “They’ve probably eaten half your leg by now.”

Before they know it, the hours have run down, and the sun’s starting to set, the sky overhead cast with clouds the deep purple of plums, rich and ripe and dark. Rick hazards a glance at the Mickey Mouse watch his parents gave him, the one with Mickey’s arms for minute and hour hands, and squints hard. Like if he only stares at it with one eye, then the other, then the time won’t be as late as it is. 

“It’s almost dinnertime,” Rick announces, frowning, when no amount of squinting or different combinations of looking at his watch have an effect on the time.

“So?” Daryl says, lounging on top of the monkey bars, lazy. He’s found a way to swing himself up top and sit there like he’s lord of the mountain, though he doesn’t seem to mind sharing that lordship with Rick sometimes.

“So, my sister’s gonna be comin’ by to pick me up,” says Rick, with a great and heavy sigh. Because any moment now, Robin will be arriving to spoil their fun.

As if on cue, Robin’s shrill voice rings out from across the playground. “Rick!” she calls. “Time to go home!”

At Daryl’s questioning look, Rick nods. “That’s my sister,” he says, making a face. 

“Gross,” Daryl says, nodding, like he knows the same misery. And before Rick can ask _you got a sister too?_ Daryl wrinkles his nose. “I got a brother. Same thing.” He thinks for a moment. “Sorta.”

“ _Rick_!” Robin’s voice is sharper this time, more panicked, and Rick knows she means business now. If he doesn’t appear, then she’s probably going to run home and tell their parents, and they’ll both be in a world of pain.

“Same time tomorrow?” Rick says, hopeful. He has more ideas of games they could play, and if he can borrow some of his dad’s old baseball gear, they can have a whole _afternoon_ of fun.

“Can’t promise anythin’,” Daryl says, frowning. “But I’ll try.”

An _I’ll try_ is good enough for Rick for now, and as he makes a kamikaze leap from the monkey bars, bounding off to meet with Robin, he waves back with a cheery, “See you tomorrow!”

Daryl waves back with a quieter _bye_ , as he’s left sitting on the monkey bars by himself. 

And even when Rick and Robin turn the corner and he can’t see Daryl anymore, Rick just keeps on waving, because he _knows_ Daryl is still waving too.

~

The next day, after Robin drops Rick off at the playground to meet her friends at the mall, he finds Daryl already waiting for him at the swings.

“Daryl!” Rick calls, his small satchel of baseball gear bouncing behind him as he runs toward the swings. “Daryl!”

“Hey,” says Daryl. He lets the swing unwind from where he’s twisted the chains and spins in a loose circle, which of course _Rick_ has to try too, because it looks so cool.

So once Daryl’s ensured that Rick’s safely planted on the swing seat, he takes hold of Rick and digs his feet into the gravel. Moves in a compact circle, the chains above creaking and groaning as they twist, coiling tighter and tighter as Daryl goes. And then he lets _go_.

“Faster!” Rick cries, delighted, spinning like a top as the swing unwinds. This isn’t flying, but it’s a new kind of thrill, the wind buzzing in his ears as the world blurs into a haze of color around him. “Faster!”

Except Rick ends up feeling rather dizzy and his stomach hurts after the swing’s finished rotating, so he has to lean against Daryl when he gets off, or risk throwing up his lunch in the bin nearby. They decide that swing-spinning will not be part of their daily activities right after eating.

“Ain’t much sense in throwin’ up a perfectly good lunch,” Daryl nods sagely. As if he’s imparting some wisdom of the ages.

“ _Urk_ ,” Rick agrees, brow scrunched in pain, holding his belly with one hand and onto Daryl with the other, to steady himself.

Daryl suggests that they scratch some X’s and O’s into the sandbox nearby for a while. Play a few games of Tic Tac Toe while they wait for Rick to feel better, since the official plastic tiles are being used by toddlers, who paw mindlessly at the tiles, simply delighted to see them turn different colors on each side. There are red X’s, green O’s, and blue triangles, the last of which neither Rick nor Daryl can figure out the purpose of.

“They don’t even know _how_ to play,” Rick says, with a great disdain that he’s picked up from Daryl, as they watch the toddler invasion before them. With the number of them swarming around today, it’s hard to make up and play the games they want to.

“Yeah, well, they’re babies,” Daryl shrugs, as if that explains everything. Despite his own contempt for the happily drooling toddlers stumbling around wrecking everything, he’s never called Rick a baby, which Rick is entirely too grateful for.

When Rick decides that he can stand up without falling down again, he breaks out the worn-out baseball gloves his dad lent him, to ‘play with Robin and her friends’. Daryl tosses the beat-up baseball Rick hands him in the air, and though it takes him a moment to get used to the idea of playing with one—like no one’s ever bothered to explain the concept of _baseball_ or _catch_ to him—they spend the afternoon playing catch until it’s almost too dark to see anymore.

“I know another good game,” Daryl says, when they’ve worn themselves out throwing the ball back and forth, pretending they’re famous major leaguers. He points at the slides they’d raced to the day before, and spent time running up and sliding back down on, as he ducks into the grass. By now, the toddler swarm has cleared out, leaving the playground a paradise entirely their own.

“We did the slides _yesterday_ ,” says Rick. He hunkers down next to Daryl, not sure why they’re whispering and hiding in the grass, but decides it must be part of the game Daryl’s dreamed up. 

As it turns out, Daryl’s idea is to pretend they’re soldiers who’ve been captured as prisoners, and have to sneak out of an enemy camp. When they get to the base of the slides, one of the soldiers has to carry his wounded companion up the slide-mountain to safety, so they can make it back to their own camp. 

“But you gotta be really good at climbing the slide, because it’s so slippery,” Daryl adds. “Like a mountain sherpa.”

Rick nods, making sure to memorize every detail of this mission. Being a secret-soldier-mountain-sherpa sounds hard, but he’s sure with Daryl there, they’ll be able to make it back to their camp in no time. 

The first thing they discover, after slithering their way to the slides, is that Rick makes a _terrible_ secret-soldier-mountain-sherpa.

He can’t really bear Daryl’s weight, and even with Daryl ‘helping’, his feet dangling just enough to hold himself up, Rick ends up making it only three steps up the slide before the two of them slide back down, Rick’s hands clawing at empty air and his sneakers scrabbling for purchase on the metal slide. 

“You’re crap at this,” Daryl says, not mincing words as usual. He’s dusting off his jeans now, because this is the fifth time they’ve fallen down the slide. “I’ll be thinkin’ twice before I count on _you_ to rescue me.”

Rick sucks his lower lip in between teeth, willing it not to tremble, because he’s not a soft jelly baby that cries all the time, despite what Robin says. It turns out that he doesn’t need to put up such a front for long, though, because Daryl just rolls his eyes and beckons Rick over. “Here, let _me_ try.”

So Rick climbs onto Daryl’s back and winds his arms around Daryl’s neck, his legs curled tightly over Daryl’s waist. Very carefully lets himself go limp, like a dead weight.

Daryl nearly makes it to the top of the slide, before his shoe catches on one of the metal bolts on the side, and they end up tumbling to the base of the slide again, a tangle of arms and legs and giggles.

“You almost did it!” Rick says, his eyes shining, as he pats Daryl on the back. “If it hadn’t been for that bolt, we coulda been back at camp already!” He makes sure to glower at the cursed bolt, for Daryl’s sake, before beaming in Daryl’s direction again.

Daryl frowns. “Almost don’t count,” he says, his expression darkening, like he’s too used to a series of _almosts_ and _coulda beens_ in his life. 

Before they can try again though, because Rick is so _sure_ they can ‘make it back to camp’ on their slide-mountain, Robin comes calling again. She’s got some shopping bags slung low on one arm that Rick _knows_ she’s going to make him carry, but he finds he doesn’t mind—it’s a small price to pay, after the day of fun he’s had. 

“Same time tomorrow?” Rick asks, before he scrambles to meet Robin on the other side of the playground. He draws in a deep breath and holds it, watching Daryl, waiting.

Daryl hesitates this time, and though he doesn’t beam brightly back, the tiny half-smile he finally offers Rick is enough. 

“Same time tomorrow,” Daryl nods firmly.

Rick lets all the air escape his lungs at once, a giant breath of relief. “Great!”

And as Rick waves his goodbyes and turns from the playground, he’s got a bounce in his step and a song in his heart, because he’s got stuff to look forward to, and things to dream up. The song is one he’d heard from the musical his sister’s class put on at last year’s showcase, and fragments of it return now, like those from a long-forgotten dream. 

_Tomorrow, tomorrow—you’re only a day away!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in Rick’s heart is _Tomorrow_ from the musical _Annie_.


	2. Love Starts To Grow

~

The days bleed into one another, the way they always do when Rick’s having fun, and soon enough, Rick knows he’s earned Daryl’s friendship, earned his _trust_ , even, when Daryl shares with him his first treasure.

“A Tootsie roll?” Rick asks. His eyes widen with wonder when Daryl pulls the candy from his pocket. It’s got a worn-out wrapper, one that’s rather linty, like it’s been in his pocket too long.

“Yeah,” says Daryl. “Found it in, um.” He pauses for a moment, fiddling with the candy in his hand. “Found it,” he says at last, like it’s his final word on the matter.

Rick doesn’t ask any more questions, because a Tootsie roll’s a Tootsie roll, no matter how linty, so they pick off what fuzzy bits they can with their fingers and eat it anyway. 

Daryl’s treasures, Rick finds, are like a double-edged sword—fascinating, but with some minor drawback, much like Daryl himself. There’s the tasty chocolate Tootsie roll with bits of fuzzy lint. A red sucker Daryl finds, wrapper half gone, that they wash off and take turns licking anyway. A pocket knife with the initials M.D. scratched into the handle, obviously not Daryl’s, that they use to carve their initials into a tree.

Unwavering loyalty with a foul mouth. 

Rick only finds out about the last one when, on an afternoon he gets to the playground before Daryl, the boys circling the bike racks with their fancy road bikes gather around Rick, looming, big, intimidating. This is a shakedown for the hush money they’ve seen his sister giving him, and Rick knows it, but there’s no way out.

“Hey kid,” the tallest of them says, as his friends flank Rick from every corner. “Why don’t you share with us some of that money you got? We’re your friends too, right? Just like that kid you been hangin’ out with.” He turns to his buddies to whisper _What’s the kid’s name? Meryl? Sheryl?_ , rolling his eyes when all he gets are shrugs in response.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Rick says stoutly, though his voice is as small as he feels right now.

“C’mon, Joe,” says one of his friends, adjusting his bandana. “Kid says he ain’t got any money. Let’s just go.”

“Yeah,” says another, looking at his watch. “The milkshake place closes early today, we gotta leave if we—”

“No,” says Joe, narrowing his eyes at Rick, and it’s not the suspicious cat-glare that Daryl’s turned on him often enough, but something feral and mean, like a panther that’s got its prey within its sights. “That, right there,” he declares, “is a _lie_. Now, I seen that pretty girl you come here with givin’ you money every day. Why, I bet you’ve got a whole _stash_ of crisp little dollar bills hidden somewhere on you, don’t you?”

Rick shakes his head, even though it’s true, of course. It’s hidden in the same place he keeps all his sacred riches—in his shoe. The others gathered around Rick frisk him, patting down his clothes, and one of them even jams his grimy hand into Rick’s overall pocket, right in the centre of his chest.

“Nothin’ here,” shrugs the one who’s searched Rick’s overalls. He pockets the pellet of tropical fruit gum Daryl had given Rick though, which makes Rick more than a little sad; Daryl said he’d been saving it, before finally bestowing it upon Rick, like a treasure, exotic and rare.

Joe keeps scowling at Rick, like there’s something about this situation that’s not quite right. Something he can’t quite put his finger on. 

“Still think you’re lyin’,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “And you know what we do to liars?” Joe leans right up to Rick’s face, close enough for Rick to smell the sourness of the chocolate milk he must’ve had for lunch. “We teach ‘em a lesson.” Joe stands back as he waves his buddies forward. “Go on, boys. Teach him a lesson.” His smile is all kinds of nasty. “Teach him _all the way_.”

 _All the way_ , as Rick finds out, involves the group of boys shoving Rick around like a lightweight beanbag between them, until a kick takes him out at the knees and he falls to the ground, hands scraping against the concrete, raw. Another kick to his back makes Rick curl into himself, hoping to make himself as small as possible until an adult comes along and finds him, or these boys tire of him and leave him alone.

This isn’t like the pinches or soft shoulder punches Robin inflicts on him when she says he’s being a brat; this is _pain_ , unlike any he’s ever felt before.

He’s huddled into a ball on the ground, fighting back tears and hoping the flurry of kicks will stop, when all of a sudden _Daryl’s_ there, clawing his way through the circle of boys, all taller and older, a whirling dervish of fists and feet and teeth as he snarls and rips Rick’s tormentors off him. And when they jump on their bikes, riding away, terrified—one of them at least has the guts to shout that it’s just not worth it, before _also_ taking off on his bike—Daryl slings rocks after them, hollering, “Yeah, you _run_ on home! Run on home to your mamas, you lousy—”

Here he lets loose a stream of filthy invective, which is quite possibly every dirty word Daryl knows, some of which Rick’s never even heard of. He’s pretty sure some are even made up, the ones to do with _dog’s asses_ or _shit-brained sheep_ , though Rick cowers and puts his hands over his ears for the rest of Daryl’s tirade, once he realizes what’s going on. 

Then it’s quiet again, too quiet, and Daryl’s hands, bruised and torn, knuckles stained with blood that isn’t his, come to cover Rick’s, gentle. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey. It’s all right now. They’re gone.” He helps Rick up, dusting off his dirtied overalls and wiping the tears away from Rick’s face, wet. “It’s okay.”

“What if they come back?” Rick asks, trying to stifle a sniffle. “What if they—”

“They ain’t never gonna hurt you again,” says Daryl, adamant. “Told ‘em you were my brother. Only reason they’ll come back is if they want another piece of _me_.”

And Rick’s just so touched by that, that he throws himself into Daryl’s arms, because Rick has an actual sister who isn’t even _half_ as nice as Daryl is sometimes.

Daryl freezes up after Rick’s wound himself around Daryl, like he’s never been hugged before, but he doesn’t peel Rick off him, and Rick takes it as permission to keep hugging and _hugging_ , because he’s just so _happy_. Daryl is boney in all the wrong places, and he winces when Rick squeezes where he’s taken a few punches, but in the end, he only manages a half-hearted _stop_ when Rick’s hung on for too long. Doesn’t try very hard when he attempts to pry Rick off him.

“So?” Daryl asks, when Rick’s gotten all the grateful hugging out of his system. “There a reason those assholes jumped you?”

Rick’s brow furrows at Daryl’s use of the word _assholes_ , because Rick’s not allowed to use that word, but he decides Daryl deserves to be told the truth, in return for this bold and daring rescue. “Think they saw my sister givin’ me some of her pocket money,” says Rick. “Because of, you know.”

Daryl nods; he _does_ know, since Rick’s filled him in on the ‘I’m at the [insert place here] with my sister and not at the playground’ act. “You oughta leave that stuff at home,” he says. “If you don’t carry it with you, they can’t steal it from you.”

Rick’s stashed a fair amount of it in a gumdrop jar at home, but he still carries a little money around, just in case. Daryl only means well though, so Rick says, “I guess. Should use of some of it too, maybe.” 

And as Daryl nods an absent _uh huh_ , Rick looks up, eyes suddenly bright with the idea of a lifetime, except he’ll have to find a way to talk Daryl into it too. “Hey!” says Rick. “We could get ice cream!”

Daryl squints at Rick, like he’s not sure if Rick’s serious about the offer, or if they have enough money for that. “How much you got?” he says finally.

Rick empties out his shoe, shaking the small collection of coins and crumpled bills he has onto the ground between them. “I have this much!” he says, beaming at Daryl as they kneel on the grass, pooling their resources. 

“Won’t work,” Daryl says. He’s counted what they’ve got, after adding his own handful of change to the pile. “Cheapest one’s at least five dollars, at the diner down the hill.” 

“Oh,” says Rick, pursing his lips into another tiny pout.

They both know the cheaper alternative is the kiddie ice cream cones from the candy shop several blocks over, but those taste like melted sludge. So Rick’s gathering his worldly riches into his shoe again, heaving a sigh of extreme disappointment, when Daryl breathes, “Hold on. I got an idea!”

“You do?” Rick says, brightening instantly. Daryl _always_ has good ideas, whether it’s for new games they can play, or finding secret places to hide around the playground.

“Yeah,” Daryl nods, mouth curved in a way that’s almost a grin. “Follow me.”

“Okay!” says Rick. And as he follows Daryl off the playground, he can’t help the uncontrollable excitement welling up inside him, because this is the first time they’ve left the playground, so it counts as their biggest adventure _yet_.

Daryl leads Rick down several streets and a few winding alleyways, but when Rick has to scamper to catch up, tugging on Daryl’s vest to huff, “Wait for _me_! Wait!”, Daryl turns to look at where Rick’s caught hold of his vest. Clutching on like they’re some kind of two-man train. 

“You’re so slow,” Daryl frowns.

Rick flinches, because Robin’s always saying things like that. Like _you’re too small, too slow, too_ everything. And wasn’t that why he was here with Daryl in the first place? Because he was too _small_ to take with her? That was why he didn’t get to go to all the ‘cool’ places, like the movies, or the mall, or the arcade where she and her friends would thumb quarters into the machines and play all afternoon. He looks up at Daryl, eyes wide, terrified that he’s going to leave Rick here too, abandon him like Robin’s so fond of doing, because Rick _can’t find his way back_ if Daryl does.

Daryl, for his part, only mumbles a quick _sorry_. Takes Rick’s small hand in his and laces their fingers together, tight, like they're latticework stitches of the same woollen blanket, the kind Rick’s mom loves knitting. Like their fates are intertwined somehow. And as Daryl gives him a twitch of a rare but reassuring smile, Rick can’t help but feel that they _are_.

When they come to an intersection, a place Rick _knows_ he’s not supposed to be, because of Rule Number One—No Crossing the Street On Your Own—he takes a deep breath and grips Daryl’s hand, tight, because he’s _not_ alone, and they make their way across the street together. 

They arrive at the busy town square, one that’s bustling with shoppers and dog-walkers and moms pushing their baby strollers. All around them are the sights and sounds and flavours of life: the clatter of baking pans slotted perfect into displays, the aroma of their golden biscuits and cream puffs wafting through the air; the crying of the gulls overhead, always looking for a stray morsel to eat; people laughing, as they weave through gift shops filled with doodads every color of the rainbow; the sound of water, the kind of muted roar that only comes from—

“ _There_ ,” says Daryl. He points at the fountain in the middle of the square, water bubbling at its base, and the occasional jet of water spraying out, like a sleepy geyser. “That’s how we’re gonna get more money.”

“Isn’t that stealin’?” Rick asks, doubtful. Seems to him like it is, taking things that aren’t theirs.

“You want an ice cream or not?” says Daryl. “’Cause if you do, we ain’t got enough.”

Rick shuts his mouth because he _does_ , and they _don’t_. “How do we do it?” he asks. 

Daryl surveys the structure of the fountain and the number of people milling around it, the flat of his hand turned up against the afternoon sun. 

“All right,” he says, “here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll kneel on that edge of the fountain there, where people’re sittin’. You hold my legs down, and I’ll scoop up what we need. That way, neither of us get too wet.” Daryl rolls his eyes when Rick gives him a worried look. “We don’t need _that_ much.”

“Okay,” Rick nods. And without further ado, they slink forward, commencing their mission of raiding the water fountain for coins.

As they near, Rick can see a healthy number of coins scattered throughout the basin of the fountain, but some are indeed further in, probably pushed that way by the flow of the water. Unless they take off their shoes to wade in and harvest the coins, Daryl’s idea seems to work best.

The sun’s beating down on Rick’s back as he holds down Daryl’s legs, and it feels like his white cotton shirt’s sticking to skin, clammy and sweaty all at once. But the fine mist of water from the fountain does wonders to cool Rick in the horrid heat, so he just steels himself and bears Daryl’s weight as best he can. Daryl, in the meantime, manages to gather two fistfuls of change in his not-so-subtle scrabbling for coins on the fountain floor, before a woman with a baby carriage screeches at them, like those clawed bird-women Robin showed Rick in a movie once.

“You leave those coins alone!” she shrieks. Like they’re bottom-feeders of the lowest degree, daring to scrape up coins not meant for funding ice cream dreams. “Those are people’s wishes, young man!” She glares pointedly at each of them in turn, though her gaze is directed mostly at Daryl.

Daryl just looks up with his mean cat’s eyes, making sure to grab an extra-large handful of change right in _front_ of her. “Don’t think they’ll mind much,” he says. “Since I’m just tryin’ to make another wish come true.”

At that, Rick nearly loses his hold on Daryl, but just manages to catch him in time. Hopes like mad that the flush filling his cheeks at Daryl’s words can be credited to the overwhelming heat of the day. 

In any case, the woman stalks off with a haughty sniff, pushing her baby carriage along as she goes, and when she’s turned away, Daryl swipes another handful of change from the basin. Signals Rick with a wet wave of his hand to reel him back in to land. 

They know not to linger too long—they don’t know if the woman’s going to call the cops on them or not, but they aren’t sticking around to find out—and together, they hightail it out of the fountain, the square, hands and knees wet with the slimy recycled water of the fountain, but pocketfuls of coins the wealthier.

“We’re rich!” Rick exclaims, when they’ve made it a safe distance away, three blocks down and one right turn. Daryl’s spilled their bounty on the grass between them, arms soaked to the elbow, but even he grins too, at the result of their hard work.

“Not yet we ain’t,” says Daryl. “Gotta count it first.”

Rick organizes the coins into tiny piles, according to how much they’re worth, and they find, thankfully, that Daryl had thought to grab more quarters than he had nickels or dimes. He can’t count any higher than thirty cents, though, so Daryl has to take over for him, and they discover that in total, they’ve swiped the equivalent of three dollars and seventy-five cents in change.

“This is enough for a _real_ ice cream,” Rick says in awe. He carefully hides their loot in the grass, a pulled-up handful of dirt and dead plant matter obscuring the coins. In case any birds or bullies want a share of their prize.

Daryl nods, thoughtful, before he gathers up the coins and tugs Rick after him. “C’mon,” he says. “I know a place.”

The place Daryl knows turns out to be _The Finer Diner_. It’s not far from the school where the playground’s located, but it’s on a street Rick’s never gone down, since his parents do all their shopping at the complex up the hill. Daryl throws the door open when they arrive, and the two of them hurry in, treading over black-and-white checkered tiles, taking in the sight of red vinyl booths and barstools, and the sound of a jukebox in the corner, crooning a soft, soothing thing that Rick can’t make out the words to.

“This—this is so—” Rick tries, as he looks around. He’s caught between a jumble of _exciting_ and _cool_ and _fantastic_ , but Daryl seems to know what he’s trying to say. 

“You like it?” he asks, with a shy smile. “Used to come here with my ma, sometimes. Before my pa started…well, before.” Daryl shrugs, like his home life’s not worth talking about. Like his time with Rick’s the only thing worth focusing on.

“Do I ever!” Rick exclaims. He peers up at the menu of desserts the diner’s got listed on the blackboard, and from where he stands, he can see the options for ice cream parfaits: strawberry, chocolate, blueberry or peach.

They’ve got just enough money for a small parfait, so when they agree on a chocolate one, they head to the cash register to place their order, instead of waiting for menus and a waitress. 

“What can I do ya boys for?” asks the waitress at the register.

Rick squints up at her name tag, but the handwriting scrawled across it’s too faded to read, so he decides to let that go and do what they came here for. “A small parfait, please!” Rick pipes up. He raises his eyebrows at Daryl for a quick look of confirmation— _chocolate?_ —and Daryl nods a _yeah_ , before Rick adds, “Chocolate, please!”

“One chocolate parfait, comin’ right up,” she beams. “And is that to stay or to go?”

Rick defers to Daryl on this, so Daryl takes a look around the diner; the booths are full since the diner’s starting to fill up for dinner, and it’s clear Rick’s too short to wiggle his way onto the high barstools. “To go,” Daryl says for both of them.

She rings them up, and while they get an odd look for paying with their handfuls of coins and Rick’s crumpled dollar bills, she doesn’t stop them to ask how they obtained their ill-gotten gains. And though it’s a near thing, Rick doesn’t break down and volunteer the truth, either.

He _wants_ that chocolate parfait.

It comes in a plastic cup with two matching spoons, and it’s just _perfect_ , the way it’s alternately layered with vanilla soft-serve and chocolate sauce. There’s a sprinkling of peanuts around the sides, and the whole ensemble’s topped with golden banana slices and a rolled chocolate wafer. 

Daryl takes them outside, so they can sit on the pavement to share. And as they take turns holding the cup between them, so their fingers don’t go numb from the freeze, Rick finds they’re close enough to enjoy the breeze of the fan from inside the diner. Hear a little better, the sound of the jukebox playing. From this distance, farther from the kitchen clang of pots and pans and the calling out of food orders, Rick can just about make out the lyrics of the song from earlier. Something about not being able to help—no, it was _can’t_ help. 

_For I can’t help_

_falling in love_

_with you._

It’s different from the songs Rick’s parents let him listen to, songs about the wheels on a bus, or row, row, rowing a boat. A _good_ kind of different.

Daryl grunts when he sees Rick straining to hear the rest of the words. “You like that sappy shit?” he asks, taking the opportunity to dig into their parfait first.

Rick just shrugs, another thing he’s picked up from Daryl, and picks at their meagre parfait, grateful at least that they were able to get the one. “You know,” he says, regretful, nodding down at the dessert between them, “we coulda gotten another one if you’d let me be on coin-gatherin’ duty earlier. I mighta been faster—that lady wouldn’t have caught us!”

Daryl just snorts and doesn’t bother with an answer, scooping up a hefty portion of the ice cream and spooning it into his mouth. Like time’s a-wastin’ if he spends it on talking. Snags a banana slice from Rick’s side of the parfait, before popping that in his mouth as well. 

“I coulda done it quieter than you too,” says Rick, spearing a banana slice of his own before Daryl takes them all. “And you’re so _heavy_.” He’d almost lost his grip on Daryl a few times, back at the fountain, though Daryl doesn’t need to know that.

Daryl narrows his eyes at _heavy_ , before deciding Rick didn’t mean anything by it. “Look,” Daryl says, “I didn’t wanna get you in trouble. Nobody’d care if I did it, though.” He shrugs. “Ain’t nobody ever cared about a Dixon,” he adds, like it’s just the way of the world. 

“Oh.” Rick blinks, surprised, because that’s not the way it works in _his_ world. He spoons a small dollop of vanilla soft serve and chocolate syrup into his mouth, thoughtful, before sharing his most honest truth. “ _I_ care about you,” he says simply.

Daryl stills, stunned, spoon halfway to his mouth, which Rick doesn’t understand at all, because he’s only telling Daryl what’s in his heart. 

All around them, the song plays on, wrapping them in a melodious layer of warmth. The crickets chirping in the roadside grass aren’t quite so loud, the last rays of the setting sun aren’t quite so bright, and as Daryl leans in, slow, Rick’s struck by the feeling that something’s about to happen, something big— _momentous_ , his mom called it—when Daryl makes a clicking noise with his tongue, that sound he makes when he’s frustrated. Fishes out the scrap of rag from his back pocket.

“I swear to _god_ , you eat like a little pig,” says Daryl. He dabs at Rick’s cheeks with the rag, holey and fire-engine red, a cloth that Rick knows is only used for Very Important Occasions, because of how hard it was to get. _Cut it from my ma’s apron_ , Daryl had told him, proud. “You look like you fell into a puddle of mud and landed on your face.”

Rick twists out of Daryl’s grasp with a whine because the ice cream’s _melting_ while they do this, but for the rest of the time, Daryl’s strangely silent, like he’s still mulling over what Rick said. Maybe it’s the reason he lets Rick have the rolled chocolate wafer on the top. Or maybe it’s for the same reason he lets Rick win most of their games of Tic Tac Toe. Whatever the reason is, Rick will take it, if it means he gets to crunch through the butter-rich morsel of chocolate, of which there’s only one. 

He saves half of it for Daryl in the end though, because that’s only _fair_.

When they’ve slurped up what’s left of the peanuts and ice cream between them, Rick starts to sit back, patting his belly, satisfied, but Daryl sighs and tugs him upright again.

“We gotta clean up,” he says. He tilts his head pointedly at the mess of sugar and sweetness that’s smeared across Rick’s cheeks and nose again. “Get rid of the evidence.”

“Oh. Right,” says Rick. Yes, there _was_ that; Rick had let Daryl in on the fact that _technically_ he wasn’t supposed to be at the playground, and that _technically_ his sister was supposed to be watching him while she hung out with her friends. So Daryl’s just thinking for them both, as he rubs anxiously at Rick’s cheeks with his little rag and his mumbles of _gotta get rid of the evidence_ , like they’d committed some ghastly crime. 

Rick sits dutifully still, letting Daryl wipe away proof of their transgressions, but there’s a knit to Daryl’s brow, irritated, when he finds there’s a place his rag won’t reach. “There, in the corner of your mouth,” Daryl says, pointing. “You’re gonna have to lick that bit away.”

Rick tries, his tongue searching, licking blindly at the spot Daryl’s directed him to. “Is it gone yet?” he asks, worried. If he was caught, there would be no more playground days, to say the least of parfaits of chocolatey goodness. 

“No, it’s still—” Daryl gives a grumpy little huff, when more of Rick’s self-licking attempts seem to smear whatever Rick had on his face around, putting Daryl’s earlier cleaning efforts to waste. “Here, lemme try.” He reaches out, palm coming to curve along Rick’s face, warm, as he wicks away the offending smudge with his thumb. As he does so, his thumb brushes over Rick’s lips, and Rick can’t help the electric shiver that runs through him at that.

Daryl blinks at the motion, but all he does in return is suck his thumb into his mouth, then his fingers, licking the last dredges of sweetness from his hand. “Ain’t no sense in wastin’ any,” he says, matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah,” Rick says, his mouth suddenly dry, with no idea as to _why_. “Yeah.”

That night, after Robin’s brought Rick home and he’s been safely tucked into his rocket-ship bedding, he presses his fingers to his lips again. Retraces the ridge where Daryl’s thumb brushed across his mouth. 

That, too, had been a good kind of _different_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The wishing fountain Rick and Daryl raid is based on this fountain [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/LQ.jpg~original).  
> \- A parfait similar to the one Rick and Daryl share from the diner can be seen [here](http://s7.photobucket.com/user/slamduncan21/media/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/chocolateparfait.jpg.html).  
> \- The song playing on the jukebox is Elvis Presley’s timeless [_Can't Help Falling In Love_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGJTaP6anOU).


	3. Lasting Memories

~

A few days later, Rick’s request for double the hush money he’s been getting every day is met with a very spirited _What the hell?_

“Why do you even need more?” says Robin, hands on her hips, incredulous. “The candy store’s a long ways away.”

Rick doesn’t bother to answer that. Only replies with what Daryl’s coached him to say. “The stakes’ve gone up,” he declares. “So if you don’t want me to tell mama you’ve been leaving me alone on the playground _every_ day, instead of just the one, you’ll…” He puts his own hands on his hips and tries to look intimidating, as he huffs, “You’ll have to pay _up_.”

Rick hadn’t wanted to steal more of people’s wishes to fund their little field trips, so he’d told Daryl in clear terms they needed an alternate choice of funding. Since they decided that Robin was, in essence, their bankroller—Daryl said he’d probably ‘get his ass beat’ if he asked his brother or dad for money—it seemed only reasonable to put the pressure on _Robin_. 

Robin rolls her eyes now at the combination of their efforts, of Daryl’s words and Rick’s execution, and she says something to the effect of Rick being a _greedy little shit_ , but in the end she peels _two_ bills from her crumpled cash supply to give to Rick. It’s an exchange that happens at their own home first, of course, since Rick’s decided that payment in cash at the playground leads to more problems than it’s worth.

While the increase in income lets them go a little farther than the playground, they still make up their own games and adventures there for the most part. It’s only on the occasions when Joe and his friends dare to come back and circle the bike racks like hungry sharks that they decide to walk down to the complex of cozy shops and diners. Make a point of swinging by the community wading pool where they love to play Pirates, taking turns doing soft belly flops into the water after ‘walking the plank’ from the terraced steps of the pool.

And when they save up enough of Robin’s hush money, they head down to the Finer Diner to share a small ice cream parfait, like usual. The waitress, whose name they’ve learned is Donna, had given them a strange look the first time they paid in coins and crumpled bills, but by now she calls them her ‘little regulars’ and throws in golden-browned biscuits hot from the oven or candied fruit for them, when she can.

On one occasion, when Rick gets to the playground, Daryl intercepts him before he reaches the swings. “Rick,” Daryl calls, in a loud, not-quite whisper. He beckons Rick over to their secret corner of the playground. They have several, but this one is their hideout beneath the slides, boarded up by wooden slats on every side but one. “ _Rick_.”

Rick hurries over, checking to see if anyone’s followed him to their hideout, before dropping his voice to a whisper. “What is it?” he asks, wondering what kind of covert operation they’ll pull off today.

“You gotta see this,” Daryl says, his voice hushed, the way it is when he’s _excited_ about something. “Found somethin’ neat the other day.”

Rick doesn’t know what Daryl does when they part for the day, but when he’d asked once, if anyone came to pick Daryl up from the park, Daryl just shrugged, and said, “I find my own way home.” So Rick suspects that Daryl simply wanders, exploring the town and the surrounding area on his own, until it’s late enough that he can avoid the rest of his family. “What’d you find?” Rick asks, curious.

And while Daryl brings forth his treasures—a shiny, smooth pebble, perfectly white and round, a chipped orange marble with a streak of navy blue, both of which he gives to Rick—Rick can tell he’s working toward something big, because Daryl’s grinning from ear to ear, like the secret he can’t contain is threatening to spill out with every inch his smile grows.

“Is this—” Rick tries, motioning to the pocket where he’s safely stored Daryl’s gifts, before gulping back the _Is this all_. He doesn’t want Daryl to think he doesn’t appreciate what Daryl’s shared with him. That he somehow expects _more_. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” he says, finally.

“No,” says Daryl. And after a moment’s thought, like he’s deemed Rick trustworthy enough to share his secret find—had the first two gifts been a test before Daryl would reveal the biggest prize?—he stands from where he’s been kneeling in the gravel. “C’mon,” Daryl says. He takes Rick’s hand like he usually does, since it’s really become second nature by now, and tugs Rick after him, so he doesn’t have to struggle to catch up. “We got a ways to go yet, but I’ll show you now.”

They weave their way through narrow streets and gravel alleyways, before hiking up a gentle, tree-lined hill, and when they reach the top, Daryl stops. “There,” he says, nodding at a small strip mall, that’s probably only meant to serve the community it’s in. “Inside.”

He leads Rick inside the strip mall, the air thick with the aroma of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon rolls. Past a shop that sells kitchenware, another that specializes in gardening supplies. And in a lonely corner of the mall, right where Daryl’s pointing, like the thing he’s found is magic and wonder and _miracles_ rolled into one, is a photo booth. 

Rick blinks at the booth. It’s an ugly cigar brown, with a curtain that’s stained with blotches of god knows what, and along the top of the booth there’s a string of uneven block lettering, black, that says _PASSPORT PHOTOS, 5 MIN_.

It doesn’t look fun in the least.

But Daryl looks at it like he’s struck gold at the end of the rainbow, and Rick can’t find it in himself to burst his bubble. 

“Thought maybe we could take some pictures,” says Daryl. “You know. To remember.” And Daryl doesn’t mention what it is he wants to remember, but Rick feels something hurt in his chest, at the thought that Daryl wants to remember _him_ and _them_ and what they have, because he has so little to call his own. 

“Okay,” Rick agrees. He digs through his small pockets for some quarters, and goes to thumb them into the slot, before Daryl pulls his hand away, gentle. 

“I got this,” Daryl says. “Ain’t right that we’re always usin’ your money.” He reaches into his jeans, and tugs out a few dollar bills that look too crisp to have been sitting in Daryl’s stash for days. 

“Where’d you get those?” Rick asks, suspicious. 

Daryl’s shoulders sag a little at the question, and he mumbles something that sounds like _lifted ‘em from Merle when he was sleepin’_. 

“Don’t steal,” Rick frowns. This was why they’d stopped going to the fountain for what they needed. 

“He was gonna buy junk with it anyway,” snaps Daryl. “Don’t see why I can’t—”

“I don’t _care_ ,” says Rick. “Don’t do it.” He crosses his arms over his chest and glares Daryl down. “If you do, you’ll get in trouble, and I…” Rick purses his lips. “I don’t want him to hurt you.” He’s seen the bruises on Daryl’s arms, black and blue and green, and he knows Daryl sure as heck didn’t punch _himself_.

Daryl, who’d been ready to be up in arms about Rick’s higher moral ground, lets his mouth drop open at Rick’s unexpected reasoning. “Okay,” he says, hands up in surrender. “ _Okay_. I…I won’t.” He rolls his eyes at Rick, but there’s the tiniest twitch of a smile, too, one he can’t manage to hide.

In the end, Rick lets Daryl feed his money into the machine, since Daryl _had_ gone to all this effort to show him the booth, and make sure it was an even exchange between them—and because Daryl would probably be in _more_ trouble if he was caught trying to slip it back into Merle’s hoard. When that’s done, they hurry into the booth. Yank the curtain shut, and push the button to start the prompts, following the instructions to the _letter_ , because Daryl doesn’t have enough for a second try. 

“Okay, it’s gonna tell us when to smile. I _think_ ,” says Daryl. “Never tried one of these before.”

They crowd together on the edge of the tiny seat, giddy with excitement, because Rick’s never tried this before either. Since the booth’s promised them a strip of four photos, they end up taking two shots of them making silly faces at the camera, and two of them simply being themselves, and when the strip spits out of the slot outside, Daryl snatches it up and splits it down the middle. 

“Here,” he says, handing Rick half the strip. In it there’s a photo each of them being utterly silly, tongues hanging out and eyes crossed, and them being, well, _themselves_. “This one’s yours.”

Rick slips it into the big pocket in the middle of his overalls for safekeeping, while Daryl shoves his into the pocket of his jeans.

“This is the best idea ever!” Rick beams, surprised at how much fun the photo booth’s turned out to be. He pats his pocket where the photo strip rests, snug, close to his heart. “Now I’ll _never_ forget you!” He’ll have a memory of Daryl with him, always. 

Daryl doesn’t promise the same, but he nods and gives Rick something close enough to a smile that’ll do. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon back at the playground, photos tucked safely away as they pretend they’re veteran hunters lost in the jungle, having to take up vine-swinging—via the actual swings—to avoid predators on the ground. 

By the time dinnertime rolls around, they look out for Robin to show up at the playground, calling for Rick at the top of her lungs. But as the hours grow later and Robin doesn’t show up, Rick can only assume she’d gone to the movies with her friends after the mall, and lost track of time. They wait on the steps of the school facing the playground, not daring to start a new game or adventure, because being interrupted in the middle of one is the _worst_. 

Rick still remembers the time he and Daryl had been undercover spies, tracking the comings and goings of a mysterious messenger across ancient sand dunes, when Robin had crashed onto the scene, squawking _Rick, Rick_ , like a parrot with laryngitis, and their ‘messenger’—a wild rabbit—had darted away into the night, rendering all their hours of undercover work useless.

It’s close to nine o’ clock when Daryl mutters something like _screw this_ and stands up. “Where do you live?” he asks Rick.

Rick furrows a brow, thinking. “I think it’s over by where the fire hydrant is. Two blocks that way,” he says, pointing in the direction he’s talking about. There’s a turn in there somewhere, but he’s pretty sure he’ll recognize his house when he sees it. “Why?”

“I’m gonna walk you home,” says Daryl. “Your folks’ll be worried about you.”

Rick’s about to argue that maybe they should wait at the playground, in case Robin comes here first, but it’s already starting to get dark, and if they don’t set out soon, he and Daryl will be walking in total darkness. There are, of course, the wan, flickering streetlights that dot the sidewalk, but they light little more than the ground beneath them and can’t be counted on to keep the darkness away. 

“Okay,” Rick says, trying to sound braver than he feels. “Let’s go.”

He slips his hand into Daryl’s open, waiting one, and they set out from the playground together. It takes them a little under ten minutes to make it all the way to Rick’s house, but they’re stuck sitting out on the front steps, because it’s dark inside and no one’s home yet. 

And maybe swinging from jungle vines has tired them out more than they expected, because Rick decides to lay his head on Daryl’s shoulder, just for a minute, and close his eyes, while Daryl curls an arm around Rick, protective, as he leans against the banister, but they both end up falling fast asleep on the stairs. 

It’s how Rick’s mom finds them when she comes home an hour later, having had to work late at the office. “Boys?” she says, tentatively. 

Daryl’s the first to leap up at the sound, waking Rick in the process, and Rick flies into her arms with a cry of, “Mama!”

They’ve agreed on a story that’ll explain why Daryl’s waiting up with Rick: Rick had gotten separated from Robin at the mall, and Daryl had ‘found’ him, wandering on his own, and brought him back here. Their story will fall apart if anyone examines it too closely, but Rick’s mom seems far too relieved that Rick’s returned to really interrogate anyone. 

In fact, after she’s thanked Daryl, and checked to see that Rick’s all right, she turns to Daryl and says, “Why don’t you come inside for some cookies?”

Rick’s mouth drops open, because cookies are a _treat_ , usually for good behaviour. And if Daryl gets some, then so does Rick, by extension, so he gives Daryl the most hopeful, longing look he can—which means round, wet doe eyes and a lower lip that juts out just _so_.

Daryl casts a silent _sorry_ in Rick’s direction, an apology made with knitted brow and a quick downward tilt of his lips, and shuffles his feet. Jams his hands in his pockets as he stares at the ground. “Thanks…ma’am,” he says, as if he’s sifting his memories for the right, most polite word. “But I gotta get on home.”

It leaves Rick and even his mom disappointed, as she frowns and says, “All right, but you make sure you come over again sometime.” She winks conspiratorially, before adding, “I’ll make you a _fresh_ batch of chocolate chip cookies, straight from the oven,” which makes Rick’s eyes grow rounder and wider than they already are.

Daryl nods before bounding down the steps, disappearing down the street and into the night. 

“He seems nice,” says Rick’s mom, thoughtful, as they watch Daryl go.

“He is!” Rick agrees. He almost follows that up with _Daryl is the nicest, bestest friend ever_ , but then he remembers that the nicest and bestest of friends aren’t made over the course of an afternoon, and the last thing he needs to do is raise suspicion.

Why is why, over breakfast the next morning, when his mom says Rick should invite his new friend over for dinner sometime, Rick responds with a resounding, “ _Yes_!”, his excitement uncontainable, just rolling off him in waves.

Robin gives him a look over her glass of orange juice, but doesn’t say anything otherwise; Rick had assured her they’d covered for her when she lost track of time, and she hadn’t gotten much of a talking-to when she’d come home, so he knows she won’t give them any trouble.

Rick’s dad, however, stares at Rick from over the top of his newspaper. “Which new friend is this?” he asks suspiciously. He looks over at Rick’s mom, mouthing _Thought he had trouble making friends in school._

“It’s Daryl!” Rick says happily, scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs and stuffing it into his mouth. 

His dad narrows his eyes, like he’s mentally sorting through all the _Daryls_ he knows, before finding one who’s Rick’s age. “That Dixon kid?” he says finally. “Over in the run-down part of town?” He frowns at his wife. “Now wait just a _minute_ here—”

“His name is _Daryl_ ,” Rick says, setting his fork down loudly. He’s tired of people pretending Daryl’s less than human, like he’s nothing more than _that Dixon kid_ , because he _knows_ Daryl, and Rick knows he’s much more than that. So he crosses his arms over his chest and glares daggers at his dad from over the kitchen table, daring him to say another word against Daryl.

Before this can escalate into a battle of wills, Rick’s mom slides an extra helping of bacon on to his dad’s plate, always soothing ruffled feathers and feelings in a way of her own. It doesn’t keep her from giving Rick’s dad a withering glance, though. 

“ _Daryl_ ,” she says, “brought Rick home when he got lost. While _you_ were out with your buddies last night, and I had to work late. So you go on ahead and bring him over next time, honey,” she says to Rick, sweetly. “We’ll put some meat on his bones yet.”

Rick’s more than delighted, because this means that their friendship is now _official_ and they won’t always have to meet in secret. And he can’t _wait_ to tell Daryl the news, the next time he sees him.

Except there is no next time, because Daryl just doesn’t show up that day.

Rick keeps on waiting, the day after, and the day after that. But no matter how long Rick waits, even recruiting his sister into sitting vigil with him, Daryl keeps on not showing up.

And Rick has no idea _why_.


	4. Promises Made

~

“You probably ticked him off with what a baby you are,” Robin says after three days, when she’s grown tired of waiting for Daryl with Rick, and marches off to meet her friends.

Technically, the word she uses is _pissed_. And Rick’s old enough to know that it’s a bad word, but as bad as it is, he decides that if Daryl was annoyed with what a baby he was, he wouldn’t have bothered to spend half the summer with Rick anyway. So surely that couldn’t be it.

But there’s no one to ask about it, worried as Rick is, and even if he overhears his parents from his hidey hole at the top of the stairs, whispering things like _terrible fire_ and _burned to a crisp in her bed_ , they won’t elaborate on the whispers when Rick asks them. The only thing odd thing he can remember is the sirens that’d been screaming down the street a few nights before, though Rick hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Decided that it must’ve been another robber the cops were chasing after, and stuffed a pillow to his ear to drown out the sound, before falling asleep.

It’s after a whole _week’s_ gone by that Rick finally finds Daryl again, hiding in the plastic dome in the park, and his heart does a little dance of elation in his chest, because he _knew_ if he waited long enough, Daryl would come. But all that happiness floats away when he crawls in after Daryl, and finds him huddled against the side of the dome, his head cradled in his arms, knees pulled tight to his chest.

“What’s wrong?” Rick asks. He raises his voice a little in case Daryl can’t hear him, because he’s sitting like he’s shutting out the whole world. Sidles up against Daryl and sits down, until they’re pressed together at shoulders and hips, sharing warmth, something Rick’s found works wonders when either of them is feeling sad. “Daryl?” he tries again, bumping their knees together lightly.

Daryl hisses a frantic _shh_ , before whispering, “I’m hidin’ from my brother.” He pauses, before adding, “And waitin’ for _you_.”

Rick decides that Daryl’s brother can’t be the reason Daryl looks as sad as this, so he sits in silence with him for a while, before deciding that maybe chocolate will cheer him up. Reaches for the half bar that’s melted in his pocket, straining until he’s worked it out of his overalls. 

“Here,” says Rick, nudging the chocolate into Daryl’s hand. It’s his last bit of chocolate until his mom buys more, but this is a noble and worthy sacrifice for so true a friend. “This’ll make you feel better.”

It does not.

But it _does_ make Daryl more willing to talk to him, instead of burying his face into his knees, like he’s some giant caterpillar curling in on himself. 

“It hurts,” Daryl sniffles finally, when he’s made his way through several bites of chocolate.

“What does?” Rick asks, his eyes wide.

And when Daryl points to his heart, without any further elaboration on what’s caused him to hurt so, Rick nods and gives him a one-armed hug that’s really just an awkward tangle of his arm around Daryl’s shoulders and his head on Daryl’s knee. Then an idea strikes him, and he rummages through his small satchel, determined. Pulls out the band-aids he’s taken to carrying, because Daryl seems to attract injuries and hurts somehow, some when he’s not even with Rick that he won’t talk about. 

With a flourish, Rick unwraps two of them, and presses the band-aids to Daryl’s shirt, where his heart should be, forming a squiggly little ‘X’. 

“There,” Rick says, patting them on, gentle, so they can heal the hurt in Daryl’s heart. “All better.” 

Daryl just looks at him, his eyes wet in a way that means it is _not_ all better. “They don’t work that way,” Daryl sniffles, but he gives Rick a wobbly half-smile, that lets Rick know he appreciates the gesture all the same. “Thanks though.”

“There must be _somethin’_ I can do to help,” Rick says, feeling all kinds of helpless, because Daryl’s clearly in pain, but he doesn’t know what else he can _do_.

“Ain’t nothin’ you can do,” Daryl says shaking his head, like it’s something all the chocolates and hugs and band-aids in the world can’t fix. And with the biggest, shakiest sigh Rick’s ever heard him heave, he says, “I gotta move away.”

Rick just stares, because he’s seen his sister’s friends ‘move away’, seen them exchange tearful goodbyes and promises to write, after which they never do. But it’s never happened to Rick, and for it to happen now is just not _fair_. Daryl’s supposed to come to his house, so they can pig out on cookies that Rick’s mom bakes and play videogames. He’s supposed to sleep over and build pillow forts and blanket tents and stay up late to tell ghost stories with Rick. And when school starts again, they’re supposed to eat lunch together and have awesome adventures after class ends, even if they’re not in the same grade.

Daryl is not supposed to be _moving away_.

“But _why_?” Rick asks, in a way he’ll realize later is utterly tactless. “Why are you movin’ away?”

Daryl doesn’t seem to mind the question, though. “My house burned down,” he says. “With my ma in it.” When Rick just gapes at him, his mouth open in a tiny _o_ of disbelief, Daryl says, “Don’t you get it? My ma’s _dead_. And I stood there and watched it happen.”

“What—” Rick manages, before swallowing back the word _happened_ , because it’s deeply personal, what Daryl’s telling him, and Rick refuses to cause Daryl more pain just to satisfy his curiosity.

But then Daryl’s talking again, like what’s happened is such a heavy burden that he has to tell _someone_. “Day after I walked you home, my pa started beatin’ on my ma real bad,” he says. “Ain’t like he never done it any other day, but this time it was _bad_. Over money or somethin’. And Merle, he wasn’t there to stop it. Went out with his friends, first thing in the mornin’,” Daryl adds, bitter.

Rick nods solemnly, as he settles next to Daryl again. He knows the pain of unreliable siblings. 

“Anyway, my ma don’t like it when I get between her and pa when they fight. So it was after, when…” Here, Daryl pauses, his voice small, like he’s weighed down with all the guilt of having to hide, unable to protect his mom. “After, when my pa left, I stayed to keep an eye on her, you know? Make sure she was still breathin’. That she was all right. Only, I didn’t have nothin’ to eat all day, ‘cause she wasn’t in any condition to cook. And Merle ate all our damn snacks.”

So far, Rick’s already dour impression of Merle is dimming by the minute. He scowls, a Daryl-worthy expression that _almost_ surprises a smile from Daryl, a barely-there twitch that fades as Daryl continues his story.

“We had some funny-tastin’ cereal left in the pantry,” Daryl says, “but it was better than nothin’. So I ran to the corner store to get some milk. Thought I’d read some of the comics in the stands. And my ma was drinkin’ before I left, figured she was all right if she could do _that_. Heard sirens outside later, but I didn’t think nothin’ of it, just wanted to finish the comic I was readin’. Only, when I got back…” Daryl drops his voice to a whisper. “Saw a crowd gathered—people from the neighbourhood, firefighters, all over the place. Saw smoke and flames too. I remember thinkin’ _where’s the fire?_ Turned it out it was _my_ house the fire was at. And my ma, she musta been smokin’ in bed, ‘cause she was burnt down to nothin’.”

With stunning clarity, Rick remembers the awful, blaring sirens of a few nights past. The whispers of _terrible fire_ and _burnt to a crisp in her own bed_. And he finally makes the connection between those things and why Daryl hasn’t shown up; it’s nothing Rick’s done, nothing he did wrong to make Daryl hate him; it was simply a matter of Daryl’s _whole life_ falling apart.

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t even _do_ anythin’,” Daryl says, his voice wet in a way Rick’s never heard before. He leans into Rick, like Rick’s his only source of support, and Rick takes his weight willingly, hoping he’s strong enough to be the rock Daryl needs. “To save her.”

Even Rick knows it’s not right to ask for more details now, so he just curls what he can of his small arm around Daryl’s waist tighter, and tucks himself into Daryl’s space. Hoping that Daryl can draw some kind of strength and comfort from their nearness. “I’m sorry,” Rick says finally.

“Me too,” says Daryl, his voice far too small and sad against Rick’s ear. After a long moment, when his soft, hiccupping breaths have faded, he sighs. “Bein’ sorry don’t mean we magically get somewhere to live, though.” He sniffles again, and there’s the longest pause, like the words he means to say next are the hardest. “Rick…” he starts. “My pa says we gotta go somewhere far away.”

Rick’s heart plummets clear through his stomach and onto the ground, at this confirmation that Daryl’s really leaving. He’s starting to realize now, that Daryl didn’t come here to reward Rick for waiting for him every day. 

Daryl had come to say _goodbye_.

“You’ll come back though, won’t you?” Rick asks, his eyes wide, as he scrambles in front of Daryl to meet his gaze. Rick is not crying, he is _not_. His eyeballs, as Daryl would say, were just sweating. Really hard. Though he’s pretty sure no one can blame him, because Rick knows what ‘moving away’ means, and it means his bestest friend will be gone forever.

“I don’t know,” says Daryl. He buries his face in his knees and arms again, and Rick hears something that sounds suspiciously like a sob. Maybe Daryl’s eyeballs were sweating too.

“You have to promise you’ll come back,” Rick demands, his own lower lip trembling. “ _Pinky-promise!_ ” He jabs his pinky into Daryl’s cheek and pokes him with it until Daryl looks up. 

Daryl’s eyes are red-rimmed, but Rick’s glad that he’s managed to surprise just the tiniest smile from him. “Pinky-promises are for _babies_ ,” he says, eyeing Rick’s extended pinky with mock disdain.

Rick puffs out his chest. “I’m not a baby,” he declares, his hands on his hips. In fact, if he stands on his tippy-toes, he almost comes up to Daryl’s _chin_ instead of his shoulder, so that must count for something.

“Then we gotta seal the deal with somethin’ else,” Daryl says seriously.

Rick’s eyes go very wide, as he sifts through his collection of memories of what people do when they’re making the most serious of promises. If pinky-promises were for babies, then surely the _cross your heart and hope to die_ version of it was for babies too. He takes a deep breath. _Go big or go home_ , his dad always said. 

“I saw on TV that sometimes people cut their hands, then shake them,” says Rick. He furrows his brow, not sure if he likes the idea of cutting his hand, but throws the idea out there anyway. “Or they drink each other’s blood.” It might’ve just been red juice in those cups he saw, Rick’s not really sure. 

Daryl’s lip curls. “Gross, I don’t want your blood all over me.” He points at his scabby knees, where the seams of his jeans are torn and crusted with dried blood. “Got enough of my own.” It’s now that Rick spots the barely-healed gash on Daryl’s shoulder that he knows Daryl didn’t get from playing with Rick, but decides it’s better to keep quiet for now.

Rick’s lower lip juts out too, as he thinks even harder, and comes up with nothing. “What do we do, then?”

Daryl thinks for a moment. “I saw this thing on TV once—they called it _swak’ing_ , I think. They use it for important letters and stuff.”

“What does that mean?” asks Rick. His brow crumples, confused. He’s never heard of this _swak’ing_ thing before. He turns the letters over in his mind. Swak? S.W.A.K.?

Daryl shrugs. “I don’t know. But it sounded cool.” 

“What do you do for it?” Rick says, eager.

Daryl reaches out slowly, and cups Rick’s cheeks in his hands. Brings their mouths together, gentle, for a touch that’s light and breathy and warm. Their noses bump against each other, awkward, but then Daryl tilts his head just so, and Rick does too, and suddenly it’s _perfect_ , the way their mouths slot together, warm and wet, tasting of the cheer-up chocolate Rick had shared with him, a heady mixture of milk sweetness, almond bitterness, and _Daryl_ that’s just the right amount of delicious.

Rick blinks, surprised, because this is far better than cutting his own hand, and if _this_ is what it takes to bring Daryl back to him, he’ll do it gladly, and he throws himself into it, returning the touch of mouths, clumsy, but no less earnest and sweet. And they’re not trading blood, but wet of another kind, so this has to count, right?

When Daryl finally pulls away with a breathless little sigh, Rick has to take a moment of his own to breathe. His head’s still spinning from all the _swak’ing_ they’ve done, and his lips are still tingling from where Daryl’s mouth touched his, but it’s a good kind of dizzy, a new kind of tingly, that he doesn’t mind at all. From what he’s seen at school, he should wipe his mouth and say _gross_ , but Daryl’s a boy, so Rick can’t catch cooties from him. Therefore, the tingling at his lips can’t be cooties. 

And the tingling in his heart? Rick doesn’t know, but he hopes that’s not cooties either.

“We’ve sealed our pact with a spit sandwich now,” Daryl says solemnly, his eyes dark, as if they’ve just performed the most sacred of rituals. 

Rick nods, dazed, all thoughts of cooties forgotten. A _spit sandwich_. He’ll have to remember that. He supposes that makes sense, since they had traded spit somehow, and he’s not sure how Daryl came up with the word _sandwich_ for it—maybe it’s because it was like they were trying to eat each other’s mouths?—but Daryl’s older and knows more than him, so it must be right.

It sounds a lot cooler than _swak’ing_ , anyway. And so much cooler than plain old _kissing_.

Besides, Rick’s seen his parents do this too, and adults make very serious promises all the time, so this makes sense to him. He’s about to tell Daryl that for a dark and sacred ritual, it was surprisingly enjoyable, and that they should trade another one just to be _sure_ —Rick would gladly trade all the spit sandwiches he had to, to make Daryl _stay_ —when a sharp holler cuts across the field. 

“Daryl!” The voice is all grit and roughness, making Rick shrink back against Daryl. “If you’re here, get your ass on home!”

“That’s my brother, Merle,” Daryl mumbles. He’d flinched at the sound, and Rick had clutched at him all the tighter, like if he held on as tight as he could, Merle wouldn’t take Daryl from him. 

“Daryl, we gotta _go_!” The voice draws nearer, but neither Rick nor Daryl move an inch, holding their breath like if they do, Merle won’t hear them. Holding onto one another, the two of them folded into a tiny ball of arms and legs, like maybe this way, Merle won’t see them. “If you don’t come out right now, we’ll leave your sorry ass here!” 

Rick’s face brightens at that. _Can you do that?_ he asks, raising his eyebrows, with a dopey, hopeful grin.

But Daryl only shakes his head, and when Merle kicks the dome they’re huddling inside, shaking their iron fortress like it’s no more than a cheap, plastic plaything, Daryl sucks in a brave breath and stands up.

“I gotta go, Rick,” he says, dusting off his torn jeans. “I gotta go.” And to anyone else, Daryl might look like he doesn’t care, that this is just another goodbye for him, like any other in his life, but Rick knows the tremble of his lip, the wetness of his eyes from tears Daryl won’t let roll down his face, so Rick shows emotion enough for the both of them. 

“Same time tomorrow?” Rick asks, hopeful, as one tear, then another escapes and rolls down his cheek. 

“I can’t, Rick,” says Daryl. 

And Rick cries, “No!”, just about ready to let Daryl drag him out of the dome, still clutching onto him, but then Daryl’s saying _stop_ and _you can’t let Merle can’t see you, don’t know what he’ll do_ , like Rick’s been the only bright spot in his life and he’ll be damned if Merle takes that away from him too. 

“Remember our deal,” Rick says, catching Daryl’s wrist, for one last, desperate touch before he goes. “ _Remember_.”

Daryl brings his palm up to meet Rick’s, and squeezes, hard, like letting go—of Rick, of all the memories they’ve made—is the last thing he wants to do. “I’ll never forget,” he says.

And when Rick is all alone again, in the dome that’s too big for just one, he vows that _he’ll_ never forget, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- S.W.A.K.: “sealed with a kiss”  
> \- The term ‘spit sandwich’ was made up for the purposes of this fic; whether or not it is an actual phrase for kissing remains unknown. At present, it does not seem to be in common usage on Urbandictionary.com, and as such, can be considered a Rickyl’ism—a phrase that exists solely between Rick and Daryl.


	5. If You Believe

~

True enough, Daryl doesn’t show up at the playground the next day, or any day after. Rick spends a while moping at the swings and digging holes in the sandbox, pretending Daryl’s right there with him, talking to Daryl like he’s only a shout away, but it’s just not the _same_.

When, at the end of the week, his sister takes him aside to share her great and terrible secret, which is just an excuse for her to brag—her first kiss, in front of the soda fountain at Bill’s Burgers!—Rick just giggles in her face. 

“You’re so _slow_ ,” he says, delighted to turn the words she’s said to him so often around on her. “I had mine _ages_ ago.”

Robin might be twice his age, but since her age was in the double digits, Robin often told him this meant she had _quadruple_ the amount of experience Rick did, not just double. So of course, this doesn’t sit well with Robin, because god forbid the thought that Rick’s beaten her in anything. 

“Who was it?” she says, following him to and fro for the rest of the day, like an annoying mosquito that’s just out of swatting range. “Who who who? Was it that bratty girl with the pigtails in your class?”

“No,” Rick says simply. It’s his answer to all of Robin’s questions that follow, because they’re all in the same vein, and because he knows not giving her the answer will annoy the living daylights out of her. This time it’s _Rick_ who’s keeping a secret safe, the one who’s got the upper hand.

Around dinnertime, after Robin’s guessed her way through the entire lineup of bratty girls in Rick’s kindergarten classes— _the one with the gap in her front teeth? the one with the bottlecap glasses?_ —Rick finally curls his lip and says _no_ , and _eww_ , because it wasn’t any of them, and he can’t imagine wanting to kiss them, either.

“Well, who was it, then?” Robin asks, hands on her hips, because it kills her to not know things, as Rick’s found out.

Rick can’t help the goofy grin that spreads across his face, shining a mile wide for this reveal. “It was my bestest friend ever!” he announces, proud. He feels something twist in his chest at the memory all the same, because Daryl should really hurry up and come back so they can share more kisses like that. 

Robin wrinkles her nose at the news. “I thought you only had like, one friend,” she says. “That Dixon kid.” 

And just as Rick’s about to hiss _His name is Daryl_ , like an angry goose protecting her babies, Robin says, _oh_ , very softly. “Oh, Rick,” she says again, when Rick just blinks at her, his wide, blue gaze every kind of confused. 

Rick’s starting to feel scared now, because he doesn’t understand that soft, sympathetic look in her eyes. Had he done something wrong? Was Daryl not supposed to kiss him? Or was Rick in the wrong, for kissing him back? 

For _liking_ it?

He flinches when Robin draws closer, but all she does is take his small hands in hers, and squeeze, warm, with a smile. “I’m happy for you,” she says finally. She doesn’t go so far as a hug, but Rick knows her well enough to know that this is as good as one.

It’s one of the few instances he can remember her actually being _nice_. 

He doesn’t realize what that means until much, much later.

~

For his sixth birthday, Rick wishes with all his might that Daryl will appear, so they can play again and explore farther out, because Rick got a _scooter_ this year. And he’ll let Daryl ride with him, so he won’t have to watch Daryl chase after the not-friends on their bikes, who won’t wait up for him.

The moment Rick’s opened his other gifts and the cake and party favors have been doled out, Rick excuses himself and paddles as fast as he can on his new scooter to the playground, to check if his wish came true. There are a few of Daryl’s old acquaintances—if that’s what they could be called—on their bikes, but as usual, they ride away, laughing and talking, and ignoring Rick like they’ve taken to doing, after Daryl gave them a dose of their own medicine. Taught them a lesson, all the way, of their own. 

There’s no sign of Daryl.

Rick checks the playground for a few days after, in case the birthday fairy or whoever it is that grants birthday wishes is backlogged with too many wishes to grant his right away.

A few days turns into a week, and a week turns into months.

In the end, Rick decides the birthday fairy must be on extended vacation for the rest of the summer, because his wish never comes true.

~

For his seventh birthday, Rick makes another wish for Daryl to show up at the playground, because this time, Rick got a kite and a model plane, and he’s pretty sure Daryl’s never had those things before and he just wants to share them with Daryl so _bad_.

He doesn’t even wait for the birthday songs, or gifts, or the cake to be cut, just hightails it to the playground right after he’s blown out the candles, because maybe he was late last year. Maybe he’d made Daryl wait too long. Rick makes it down two blocks and cuts a sharp left, gravel crunching loose beneath his sneakers as he crosses into the sacred playpark. Checks under their plastic dome. The benches. Their secret hideout beneath the slide.

Rick even checks under the low-lying wooden bridge where Daryl liked to pretend he was the Troll Under the Bridge and Rick would be _all_ the Billy Goats Gruff, trip-trapping over the bridge in search of greener pastures.

Daryl’s not in any of those places, which is all kinds of disappointing, because Rick thought for _sure_ Daryl would be hiding as the Troll, just to jump out and surprise him like he used to. Rick decides that maybe he just didn’t wish hard enough, and resolves to do better next time.

But _next time_ is another whole year away, so Rick gets the idea to save up all his Christmas wishes that year. Stops just short of sending a letter to Santa with a demand to _give Daryl back_ , because he doesn’t know where to post his handwritten note. He gives his wishlist to his parents instead, which only has the one item, because he’ll forego all his Christmas presents if it means getting Daryl back. 

When his mom unfurls his list and reads it, she bites her lip and breathes _oh_ , her voice wobbly in the way that Rick can tell she’s trying not to cry. She’s guessed by now that he and Daryl hadn’t just spent one afternoon together, though she’s assured Rick that his secret’s safe with her. But Rick knows that look she’s got now, that crumpled expression of hurt that mirrors his own. He knows exactly what it _means_.

“Oh, honey,” she says, when tears slip out of Rick’s own eyes, against his will. She lets Rick crawl into her lap, as she rocks him and tells him _Santa knows you’ve been a good boy_ and _there’s only so much Santa can do_ , but they all boil down to the same thing:

Daryl is not coming back this year.

~

For his eighth birthday, Rick gets a telescope from his parents, which he’s pretty sure is more useful than the model plane. Maybe his presents hadn’t been interesting enough last year for Daryl to bother coming back, so with this thought in mind, he wishes for Daryl to come back, to come back to _Rick_ , because _I have an awesome telescope now, and we can haul it out and look at the stars together_.

Daryl seems like he’d know his constellations, and Rick’s sure if he asked, Daryl would teach him about each and every one.

Rick shuts his eyes tight, and keeps repeating his wish in his mind, holding his breath as he does so, thinking _Daryl Daryl Daryl_ before blowing out the candles so hard that Robin complains he probably got baby spit all over it. 

Except Daryl doesn’t magically phase into being at Rick’s house. He’s nowhere to be found on the playground, either, when Rick checks, his heart in his throat after he’s torn down the sidewalk.

When a search of every single one of their secret hideouts turns up nothing, Rick kicks at loose dirt and gravel, sending a spray of it at the swings. “Come back, Daryl!” he yells into the air, hearing it echo around the compound of the playground. “You promised you would! You have to come _back_!”

The outburst only earns him a _look_ from some very unimpressed pigeons, perched high on the frame of the swings. Rick kicks the swings too, for good measure, scattering the pigeons. Wonders if rage will bring Daryl back— _anger_ , fire-red and hot—as he kicks up more dirt and gravel, spraying it outside the wooden confines of the playground.

He finds he can’t keep up the tantrum for long, though. 

And Daryl still doesn’t come back.

~

For his ninth birthday, Rick wishes for a video game that’s all the rage that year—some kind of first-person shooter that you can play cooperatively with other people. After all, his wishes for Daryl have gone unanswered, so he might as well put them toward something _useful_.

Rick gets his wish; in the last he gift he unwraps, there’s a copy of the newest Game of the Year edition of _Stryker: The Resistance_. 

He gets bored of it in an hour. 

He decides he should’ve wished for Daryl, instead.

~

For his tenth birthday, Rick gets a brand new _bike_ , and something in his chest feels like breaking when he finds his birthday gift from his parents, because he remembers that if Daryl were here, Rick would give him a ride on it. Hell, he’d probably even let _Daryl_ ride it. Daryl had always looked longingly at the bikes the older kids had, and told Rick that someday, _I’ll have the biggest, baddest bike there ever was_. And at Rick’s wide-eyed, very serious, _Will you let me ride it too?_ Daryl had only snorted and said _hell yeah_ , like there was no question about who’d have this privilege when he got it.

So all Rick wants to do is share this gift with Daryl, just like he has all his other birthday presents. Just wishes Daryl was here, because Rick has so much to tell him, and show him, and Daryl isn’t _here_. 

But when it’s time to blow out the candles on his cake, as per tradition, Rick wishes for Daryl for what he tells himself is the last damn time. Because Daryl’s probably forgotten him by now, probably making new friends and chasing after girls to trade spit sandwiches with _them_ instead. He wishes with all his might, thinking _it’s okay if it didn’t come true all the other years, just let this year be the one_ , before heaving a hopeful breath at the candles, like he has every year. Hightails it to the playground, this time on his bike, his shiny new bike that Daryl _has_ to, just _has_ to come back for.

Daryl’s not at the playground, or the bike racks, or hiding inside the dome, like he had been the last time Rick saw him. 

Daryl’s not anywhere, in fact. 

Rick kicks at the dome where they’d shared their first kiss, their last words, sending sand and gravel skittering loose over the scratched plastic, worn from a billion kids crawling and climbing all over it. It’s not rage he’s feeling anymore, not anger he naïvely hopes will bring his friend back, but frustration, pure and simple.

_That’s the last time I’ll make stupid baby wishes that don’t come true_ , Rick vows. His hands ball into fists he watches sand slide down along the dome, like muddy rain, the sight of his all hopes sinking deep into the ground.

_The last_.

~

It’s beginning to feel like Daryl never existed with every year that passes, and sometimes Rick has to wonder if he’d imagined that summer, imagined a whole friend into being.

But then Rick remembers the hesitant press of lips to his, the taste of chocolate and almonds and a sweetness he’s tasted nowhere else, and he _knows_ he didn’t. And despite his bitter vow that he didn’t believe in stupid baby wishes anymore, Rick still wishes on every birthday candle, shooting star and Thanksgiving turkey wishbone, as if he can _will_ Daryl back into existence, with the sheer number of wishes he’s made.

Of course, none of them work, no matter how hard Rick hopes, no matter how much he _believes_ , and by the time he’s fifteen he gives it all up as a bad job, and just hopes Daryl is happy, wherever he is now.

_Remember our deal_ , Rick had begged that day. _Remember_.

_I’ll never forget_ , Daryl had said.

Except he clearly has, because no one lets a whole decade go by without making some kind of reappearance, and Rick decides he’s better off moving on with his own life. He’s heard first loves never work out anyway, so he’s not alone in that respect.

“Look, all you need to do to forget Daryl is find a new love,” Robin tells him one night, as she’s teasing her hair in the mirror for a date. She’s straightened most of her hair out now, because she despises the telltale Grimes curls, but keeps her bangs wild and unruly because they make her ‘stand out’. “Seriously, try it sometime. Besides,” she adds, voice softer, the way Robin speaks when she’s trying to be kind, “I doubt he’s pinin’ for you the same way you are for _him_.”

The thought of that being true _hurts_ , and there’s an indignant _I do not pine_ building at the back of Rick’s throat, but they’ll both know he’s lying if he says it. “I’m not lookin’ to forget him,” Rick settles on, in the end. Just to be clear.

He gets an eyeroll and a huff of annoyance for his honesty. “Suit yourself,” Robin sighs, like she’s done with the matter, even if Rick knows he can count on her to lend a willing ear, the next time his hopes for Daryl’s return don’t pan out. Most times, anyway. 

Sometimes. 

All right, maybe once in a blue moon.

Ultimately, though, Rick decides there must be _something_ to her words, because Robin’s no longer with the boy of the infamous first soda fountain kiss, and in fact, has a new boyfriend every month—if not every week—and she doesn’t seem to be faring any worse for it. 

So Rick tests the waters of the high school dating pool and goes out with Lori, top of their class, with pretty brown eyes and long hair that falls to her waist. 

It doesn’t last long at all, because she’s all easy laughs and smiles, too fragile where Rick expects strength, curves where Rick’s grown too used to imagined edges. 

He tries going out with his friend Shane after that, which is closer to what Rick’s wanted, even if it’s not _quite_. Except that ends up being more _staying in_ than _going out_ , because Shane doesn’t want people to know about them, even if it’s just clumsy kisses and fumbling touches.

So it’s the ultimate cosmic joke when, after the two of them have dumped Rick, one after another, Lori and Shane go out with _each other_.

Inevitably, that’s when Rick returns to his _if Daryl were here_ thoughts. If Daryl were here, he and Rick would be thick as thieves, hanging out after class or riding around town on their bikes. If Daryl were here, he’d make high school better than the hell hole it’s been so far, with its backstabbing friends, irritating teachers, and a legion of loudmouthed jocks that figured the school was theirs, including the possessions of everyone in it. 

And if Daryl were here, well, hell—he’d heal that hurt in Rick’s chest in a _heartbeat_. 

Because Daryl makes everything better. He’s like hot cocoa on a chilly day, or a heated blanket when you’ve got a cold. But it doesn’t take long before Rick remembers that Daryl is very decidedly _not_ here, and he has to carry on like he always does. 

Rick’s old enough now not to bother with little baby wishes that never come true, and he’s decided to pick up his old man’s tried and true work ethic: _if you want it, work for it_. So when his next birthday rolls around, he makes a silly, frivolous wish for a Ford Mustang, before setting out to find himself a job to start saving up for one. 

It’s only after he’s mooned after the Mustang in the showroom for what must be the millionth time, that something _finally_ clicks in Rick’s mind. 

_If you want it, work for it_. 

Hard work, instead of wishes. If Rick had wanted Daryl that badly, then he should’ve asked around, found out where he’d gone. As Rick thinks back, he wonders how he hadn’t thought of this in so long, to just look for Daryl himself. Maybe he hadn’t had the resources as a kid, but surely he could’ve _asked_ someone, an adult who might’ve known.

Except he hasn’t the faintest clue how to start. Ends up cursing himself for never asking for Daryl’s last name, because who thinks of that when the summer days are long and you’re having the time of your life? He hadn’t even _known_ about last names back then, just squiggled a giant backwards ‘G’ in front of his name when his parents told him to, thinking it was a silent letter, like the ‘K’ in _knee_ or something.

But then he remembers Daryl picking at their parfait with a spoon, and saying _Ain’t no one ever cared about a Dixon_. Everyone around him calling Daryl _that Dixon kid_. Rick had wondered, back then, if maybe a Dixon was some mythical beast or rare species of animal that could take human form, like a dragon or unicorn. One that no one particularly cared about or bothered with, because they didn’t have any special powers, or their blood didn’t hold magical properties.

But Daryl had always just been _Daryl_ to Rick, whether he was a Dixon, a dragon, or a unicorn.

Rick’s father only straightens his morning newspaper with a sharp _snap_ when Rick asks him about Daryl. “No one knows where the Dixons went, son,” he says. “It’s like they’ve fallen off the face of the earth.” He peers over the top of the paper at Rick. “You’re better off forgettin’ about them. _And_ your friend.”

Rick makes sure to ask around town too, just in case his father’s lying to him, but the responses are mostly the same: no one knows where the Dixons ran off to—likely to escape the law—or they’ve never even heard of them.

After a week of furtive inquiries made into Daryl’s whereabouts, to pretty much all the townspeople, Rick decides that maybe some things aren’t meant to be. 

No matter _how_ hard you work.

~

It’s weeks past Rick’s twenty-fifth birthday when something extraordinary happens.

He hasn’t wished on birthday candles in the last decade, hasn’t saved up Christmas prayers for Santa, because he’s long past those vestiges of his childhood. But all the same, Rick can’t deny feeling like _something’s_ shifted back into place when he stumbles upon it—just a small thing, a little thing, that somehow means so _much_.

Rick’s just finished with a midday grocery run, when, on the way back to his new flat, he finds a mess of detour signs and sandbags piled up in the road.

“Road’s blocked,” one of the workers calls out. “Water main burst an hour ago.” He jerks a nod at the detour signs, a series of shoddy orange road markers with arrows that tell Rick where to go. 

Rick nods a thanks for the heads-up, and sets out in the direction the signs point to. 

As it turns out, the signs take him past the old town square, a place he hasn’t visited in years since they built the new road for easy shopping and restaurant access. Some of the shops dotting the landscape of the square have grown bigger, others smaller, and others have disappeared completely. The bakery, for one, where Rick used to stop with his mother for butter pecan tarts and chocolate-dipped shortbread, has annexed the shop next to it, adding on a miniature coffee bar. Meanwhile, the pet food store’s gone under, replaced by a dimly-lit laundromat, with a bulb that seems to short out every ten seconds. A few of the old gift shops still remain, but instead of tie-dye T-shirts and suncatchers, they sell smaller knickknacks, like fridge magnets and shot glasses.

In the middle of the square, though, is the old fountain where he and Daryl had once fished for coins, so they could afford an ice cream parfait—a king’s feast when they were as small as they were.

The fountain’s been repaired at least a dozen times, from the looks of it, a mosaic of patchwork from each time it’s been fixed, and they’ve even added a ring of glowing lights around the base of it, making it look rather tacky. But the sight of the fountain brings back a wave of nostalgia, nevertheless.

It’s a wave so strong it leaves Rick longing for the old days, when things were much simpler. When Rick didn’t have to bend and scrape and bow to others, endure calls of _hey, rookie_ , and make coffee and doughnut runs until the older cops decided he wasn’t much fun to tease anymore, and newer, fresher rookies took his place on the totem pole.

At the same time, it reminds him of just why he went into law enforcement, because it’s always been at the back of Rick’s mind, that if he could’ve _done_ something—for Daryl’s mother, for _Daryl_ —maybe Daryl’s house wouldn’t have burnt down. Maybe Daryl wouldn’t have had to move away. His friend’s long gone now, but at least this way, Rick knows he won’t have to sit helplessly by for all the Daryls that come after, only able to offer melted chocolates and hugs.

Rick makes his way closer, feeling the cool spray of fountain water, a light mist against his face, and lets himself _remember_. The way he’d felt with the sun beating down on his back, holding Daryl’s legs down, so neither of them would fall into the bowl of the fountain. Laughter, mischief-bright, the cry of gulls along the fountain’s edge, pecking, and—

_Those are people’s wishes, young man!_ a voice shrills.

Rick’s startled from the memory, and even if it’s been years since their raid on the fountain, he’s still sorry for the wishes he’d stolen back then. Wonders if it’s appropriate to make one of his own now, even if he doesn’t believe in such things anymore. After all, he’d tried birthday wishes, shooting star wishes, wishbone wishes, and Christmas wishes. 

He’d tried hard work. 

And none of those had worked either. 

_It can’t hurt_ , Rick decides.

He flips a quarter into the gently bubbling water, for his own wish, watching it strike the surface with a _splash_ and following its descent through the water. Thinks for a moment, before shifting his grocery bags onto one arm and rummaging through his pocket for another quarter.

Daryl’s probably forgotten his own part of the deal by now, but this— _this_ is in case Daryl needs a little luck on his side too. To get back to Rick, wherever he is.

So Rick draws in the deepest breath, of courage, of hope, and of faith. And as he flicks the second quarter into the fountain, listening for the splash that declares his request’s been received, he closes his eyes and _believes_.


	6. Coming Home

~

Rick’s half-dozing on the couch of his new flat when the phone rings that evening, and his heart jolts in his chest for a moment.

 _Could it be?_ he wonders. _That after all this time…?_

No, it had to be coincidence—miracles never happened that fast. Except coincidence or not, it wouldn’t help _anyone_ if Rick didn’t answer the phone.

He makes a mad scramble for it on the second ring, nearly tripping on the threadbare rug on his way there. “Hello?” Rick says a little breathlessly, after he’s snatched the phone off the cradle. How would Daryl sound, after all these years? Would he know Rick from his voice alone? And could he still feel the same—

“Rick! I’m glad I caught you. I really need a favour from you tonight, please please _please_?” 

With an inward groan at his sleep being disturbed for yet _another_ inane request from his sister, Rick has to fight the urge to simply hang up again. He stifles a yawn and rubs at his eyes with a fist instead. As if he can wipe away the exhaustion that’s plagued him since he started his job at the station. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “What is it?”

Robin sounds far too delighted for the time and the hour, which makes Rick think she’s not working overtime at _all_ , as she claims. But he figures whatever it is she’s doing, she’s got a good reason—probably another date night with her husband, that she’s just too embarrassed to admit. “…And that’s why I’ll need you to pick the kids up from school,” she finishes. “Maybe you could take them to the playground I used to bring you to? Kill some time there?”

 _The playground you used to ditch me at, you mean_ , Rick thinks sourly. But he just nods into the phone, even if she can’t see, and says, “Sure. I’ll have them back before eight, like usual.” 

It’ll be nice to spend time with the twins, Rick decides, especially since they work wonders in pulling Rick out of whatever funk he’s fallen into, like the one he’s fallen into tonight. He rubs at his eyes again. It’s going to be a long couple of days off, but he’s thankful for the bright spots he can find in his life, at least.

Angus and Angela are waiting for Rick at their school’s front door when he arrives, both properly bundled for the autumn weather, their scarves perfectly in place and small, matching blazers zipped tight to prevent the wind from tunnelling through warm clothes. 

“Uncle Rick!” they cry in unison. They bound toward him, arms outstretched, and while Rick’s always wished he had two pairs of arms, so he could pick them up at the same time, he manages to swing Angie—as she likes to be called—into his arms first, while Angus clambers onto Rick’s back, not one to lose to his sister. “You’ll never guess what we did in school today!”

“ _Try_ me,” Rick dares. They leave the sad excuse for a playground for their own school behind—a creaky jungle gym, a set of wobbly monkey bars, and a rickety slide, all a testament to their school’s belief of _mind over matter_ , the ‘nurturing of intellect over physicality’, whatever the hell that meant—in favour of the playground that Rick’s known and loved since he was a kid. 

On the way there, the twins regale Rick with stories about how they sliced open an earthworm to see what was inside (Angus’ favourite activity of the day, met with a spirited _eww, gross_ from Angie), and rubbed crayons along paper placed over broad, pointed leaves that’d fallen around the school, recreating their patterns (Angie’s favourite, met with an _eww, lame_ from Angus).

When they arrive at the playground Robin’s asked him to bring them to, Rick sets them loose, with a promise to take them to the Finer Diner after for parfaits if they behave. He’s never brought them here before, thinking the place was _special_ somehow, that it was _his_ alone. But in the end, he’d had some of his fondest memories here, and maybe it’s time to create them anew in the next generation. 

The next generation. _God_ , Rick felt old sometimes.

“Remember,” Rick says again, because the twins have a reckless streak at least a mile wide, “parfaits _only_ if you behave. And by that I mean no bumps, bruises, or broken bones by the time you’re done playing.”

“We’ll behave, Uncle Rick! We will!” Angus says. He throws his knapsack down beside Angie’s, and the two of them take off toward the swings.

Rick’s not sure how long he spends on the bench nearby, watching them play, before starting on the horror anthology he’d picked up for cheap at the bookstore. But the sun’s making its way past the treeline in the distance, just the barest winks of light visible as it sets, when someone settles down on the bench next to him, jolting the seat a little.

“Oh,” says Rick, startled from his reading, as he looks to his left. “Hello.”

And then he has to take a second to think _hello_ with a lot more emphasis, because whoever this guy is, he’s gorgeous, and the light of the setting sun shines at just the right angle to turn umber-dark hair into harvest gold.

“Hey,” says the man, reaching into his jacket, black and leather-smooth for a carton of cigarettes. He shakes one out and clenches it between teeth, before cupping his hands against the wind and lighting it in one easy, effortless motion.

“Do you, uh…” Rick tries, knowing that _do you come here often_ is probably the worst opening line he can use, after he remembers where they are and why he’s here. With Rick’s shitty luck, the guy’s probably here to pick up his kid, and he’ll probably take off the moment some pipsqueak comes running into his arms from the playground.

 _What’re_ you _starin’ at, pipsqueak?_

The memory comes suddenly, spontaneously, and Rick shakes it away, because it’s not fair that it come at such a time, when he knows he should let go of the past. He had put so much _hope_ into that wishing fountain, thinking that running into it again had _meant_ something. But he knows now that the things he wants and still wishes for lie in the realm of fantasy. Of romance novels, and films, and Things That Never Happen To Rick.

Maybe it was a sign that it was time to do some good old-fashioned sleuthing instead—Rick had access to the police database now, after all—but if he was caught searching for items unrelated to a case, Rick stood to lose his badge, his job, and everything he’d worked so _hard_ for.

Rick lets the span of a heartbeat pass, two. “Which one’s yours?” he asks finally, still hoping to make some small talk, as he nods toward the kids on the playground.

The man lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, and says, “None of ‘em.”

Rick’s not quite sure what to make of this. On one hand, it’s good news for Rick, because the man’s not here to pick up any kids. On the other hand, it _does_ raise the question of what exactly he’s doing here instead. 

As if he’s sensed a part of Rick’s inner turmoil, the man says, “Used to live around here. Played here when I was a kid. Just came by to…look around, you know?”

“Right, yeah.” Rick’s tongue darts out to lick his lips; he’s more than familiar with that feeling. He’d returned here numerous times over the years, even when he wasn’t hoping for something that’d never happen, just remembering the good times. “Me too,” Rick says. “Had some of the best memories here.”

“Yeah. Same.” Rick watches the man take a slow, easy drag off his cigarette. Twitch a grin as he flicks a glance toward Rick. “Stole me my first kiss here.”

“Oh,” Rick says quietly. He swallows hard, his lips tingling from the memory of his own first kiss, in the now-repainted plastic dome that sits less than a yard away. Rick’s tempted to say _me too_ , like he’s some natural-born Casanova, but then again, he hadn’t been the one doing the stealing, so all he manages is, “That’s…that’s nice.”

“Nice?” says the man. “Yeah.” He looks out at the playground, stretching his legs out before him. And as he crosses them at the ankle, all lithe and lean muscle, Rick swallows, working hard to keep eye contact, instead of letting his gaze wander over broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and sturdy hands he wouldn’t mind having wrapped around his own hips. “Yeah, it was.” 

Rick’s not sure what to say to that—was that _wistfulness_ he’d heard in the man’s voice?—so with a brightness he doesn’t feel, he asks, “How long have you been together?” Might as well rip off the band-aid and sate his curiosity. “If she went to school here, I might know her,” he adds, grinning, even if the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

The man knits his brow at _she_ and _her_ , his eyes narrowing in a way that’s somehow familiar, but then he’s talking again, and Rick has to stop staring to listen. “Together? Nah.” He taps the ash from his cigarette. “Coulda been, though.” He pauses, and the frown that tugs at his mouth speaks of regret ages old. “Coulda had _years_ together.”

And something hurts in Rick’s chest at that, because he knows that feeling all too well.

“That don’t matter, anyhow,” says the man, like he’s let bygones be bygones. “Because I’m back _now_.” And the look he throws Rick seems to be laden with _meaning_ of some sort, but just as Rick opens his mouth to answer, some iteration of _god, they’re lucky, whoever you’re back for_ , or _I wish the one I was waitin’ on would come back too_ , Angus runs up to him, breathless, Angie only a step behind.

“We’re done playing now,” he announces, as Angie twitches Rick’s sleeve, anxious. Together, they give him the widest, saddest eyes they can manage, which means only one thing: that it’s time to go to the Finer Diner now, for their ice cream parfaits. 

Rick glances at his watch. They’ve spent at least two hours at the park, and it’s running closer to seven now. “I don’t know,” he says, doubtful. “It’s gettin’ kinda late. Shouldn’t be bringin’ you kids back full of sugar.” He wrinkles his brow, trying to decide whether it’s worth risking Robin’s wrath to win points with the twins.

“Please please _please_ ,” they beg in unison. Angie looks like she’s on the verge of crying, as she asks her brother why Uncle Rick is so _mean_ , because he _promised_.

The man sitting beside Rick lets out a shaky breath at the word _uncle_ , almost in relief, and this time, he chuckles as he crushes his cigarette under the heel of his boot. “Don’t you know?” he says to Angus. “You gotta lock ‘em down with pinky promises. That’s the way to go.”

Appreciating the fact that the man put his cigarette out when the kids came bounding up, Rick only laughs in return. “Pinky promises are for _babies_ ,” he says. An echo of the words someone dear had said to him, once.

“Think they’re a little young to be sealin’ deals with spit sandwiches,” the man remarks. 

And Rick’s not sure if it’s because Angus yells _I’m not a baby_ and puffs out his little chest, with his hands on his hips just the way Rick had done once, or if it’s the way the man says _spit sandwiches_ , like he knows exactly what they are when no one else had, but Rick just stares and stares at this mystery, this enigma of a man before him, the bits and pieces slowly falling into place.

When he’s finally, _finally_ managed to make his mouth work again, Rick inches forward and whispers, uncertain, “Daryl?” As if the man sitting before him will disappear like a wisp of cloud, at a sound too loud, a touch too earnest.

“ _Took_ you long enough,” Daryl says, with a snort. “Could hear the gears turnin’ in your brain for a while there. Thought I’d be here all night.” He grins then, the lovely, lopsided thing that Rick’s always remembered, whenever he’d done a thing right, whenever Daryl had been pleased, happy, _elated_.

“Daryl,” Rick says again, surer, trying the word out for real this time. “ _Daryl_.” He reaches out a hand, to touch, to test, because Daryl can’t be real, he can’t be _here_ , but when Daryl reaches out, hesitant, and bridges the distance between them, his own fingers warm against Rick’s, Rick throws himself forward and wraps his arms around Daryl’s shoulders, tight. “I missed you,” Rick whispers. “I _missed you_.”

He buries his face into Daryl’s neck, where it’s safety and comfort and warmth, and memories long gone flood back to him now, a deluge of sentiment that Rick’s slowly tried to jettison over the years. His first friend, first parfait, first kiss, and—

His first crime, too, if stealing money from the wishing fountain counted. And Rick had the nerve to call himself law enforcement!

“I—” Daryl tries, followed by a series of awkward _uh_ ’s and _um_ ’s that Rick finds entirely too adorable, before he grunts, “Well, I’m here _now_.” Rick knows it’s Daryl-speak for _I missed you too_ , so he just laughs and keeps holding on because Daryl’s finally _here_ , he’s _real_ , and god, Rick could cry because he’s wanted Daryl so bad for so _long_.

They finally draw away after a while, since they’re starting to attract whispers and stares from the kids and parents there, and Angus and Angie themselves are whispering and conspiring. But it hasn’t been five seconds before Rick’s already missing Daryl’s warmth and the smell of him, all leather heat and smoke.

Because they’ve been apart for so long though, Rick’s not sure that Daryl’s up for trading a spit sandwich like they’d done the last time they saw each other, or even another hug. And he sure as hell isn’t going to proposition Daryl for either in front of his niece and nephew. There’s got to be a safer, better way to do this, one that doesn’t involve Rick getting a black eye or his teeth knocked out, in case his hopes to get better reacquainted with Daryl aren’t reciprocated.

Daryl had agreed their kiss was _nice_ , hinted that they _could’ve_ been together, but Rick’s got to be sure in case the signs are wrong, and he’s hoping for something that’s not there. 

“Guess I gotta take these little troublemakers to the Finer Diner for ice cream parfaits,” says Rick. “Since you stepped in for them and all.” He pretends to look cross at Daryl, though by Daryl’s half-smile, he knows Rick doesn’t mean anything by it. “So maybe, uh.” Rick licks his lips, and he’s only grateful that he’s not holding onto Daryl anymore for the sole reason that his palms are sweating bullets against the knees of his jeans. “Maybe if you’re not doin’ anythin’…you could join us?”

“Think I’d like that,” says Daryl, and his smile now is one Rick remembers, warm and fond, with just a touch of shyness. He turns to where Angus and Angie are clustered together, staring up at them with wide eyes, and adds, “If that’s all right with you two.”

“It is!” Angus says, speaking for both of them. They turn to rifle through their bags for hats and mittens, since the wind’s picked up and it’s a fair walk to the diner, when all of a sudden, Robin comes bustling up to the bench. Like she’s just materialized from the dark of the night itself.

“There you are!” Robin calls breathlessly, gathering Angus and Angie into her arms. She nods at Rick. “Sorry for the wait—had to grab a few things after work, thanks for keeping an eye on them!”

And when the twins try to twist out of their mother’s grasp with a whine of _but ice cream parfaits_ and _Uncle Rick promised_ , Robin simply reins them in and says sharply, “No sugar past seven o’ clock.” 

Rick’s pretty sure that’s never been an official rule before now, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on this, because Robin’s already whisking her kids away with a wink and an _I’ll leave you two to catch up_. And before long, Angus and Angie’s begging and pleading—to no avail—fades away, and it’s just Rick and Daryl on the bench.

“I guess our double date will have to wait,” says Rick, smiling, before the magnitude of his corny little one-liner hits him, and heat rushes to his cheeks, warm. He hasn’t even seen Daryl for more than a few minutes, and already he’s talking about _dates_ and thinking about swapping spit. What was next—marriage? A baby carriage? _Christ_.

Daryl doesn’t seem to mind the slip, though, and he shrugs. “Don’t mind just the two of us,” he says, standing up and stretching his legs, and if Rick admires the long line of his legs, the perfect curve of Daryl’s ass in those jeans, he keeps it to himself. “Think you might need to lead the way, though. A lotta things have changed out here.”

Rick stands too, and slips his hands into his pockets, even though he’d like nothing more than to reach out and take Daryl’s hand in his. But it’s early hours yet, and if Daryl’s not interested in picking up where they’d left off, then it’d leave them with a lot of awkward conversations before they’d even caught up.

They’ve made it halfway down the street when Daryl says, “Woulda given you a ride on my motorcycle, but I had to leave it in the garage today. Patchin’ a flat and I gotta let it set. Next time for sure, though.”

Somehow, it doesn’t surprise Rick that Daryl owns a motorcycle, because it’s the _biggest_ and _baddest_ of all the bikes on the road, like he’d always wanted. With a smile that Rick hopes doesn’t look like a leer—he’d briefly thought of other things of Daryl’s he’d wanted to ride, what was _wrong_ with him today—Rick says, “It’s fine. Better this way.” 

And it is, because there’s something to be said for walking side by side, the way they used to. Just talking and sharing both the silences and the words between them, shoulders bumping together every now and then, easy. He hears about the motorcycle Daryl’s building out of spare parts, a custom job for one of the clients at the garage he’s working out of—workhorse bike, nothing fancy—and in return, Rick tells Daryl about his job and some of the assholes that treat the police drunk tank as a weekend retreat. The latter earns him a breathy huff from Daryl, soft and low that Rick remembers as the sound of his laugh, and it’s lovely the way the sound wraps around Rick, like a warm and woollen afghan, the timbre and cadence of it _glorious_.

They while away the minutes without even meaning to, just enjoying each other’s company and conversation, so it’s not long at all before they find themselves at the entrance of the Finer Diner—now double doors with frosted glass. 

“Like I said, a lotta changes,” Daryl says, blinking. He flicks a glance toward their new neon sign. The new parking lot they’ve cleared out on the side.

“Think you’ll find that the more things change, the more they stay the same,” laughs Rick, pushing the doors open and leading Daryl through, hoping he’ll get the second meaning behind Rick’s words.

Daryl tilts his head—maybe it’s in acknowledgement, and maybe it’s not—but Rick trusts to hope that his words have gotten through, and they find a place at one of the booths on the side, shiny red vinyl seats and retro chrome tables, just like it was in the old days. 

The Finer Diner’s expanded their menu to include a variety of specialty burgers and hashes and shakes, but when it looks like they’ve both had a bite to eat before coming out, Rick taps the menu on the page labelled _Parfaits_. 

“How about one of these?” he grins. There are extra choices now for ones with apples, kiwis, pineapples, and passion fruit, but Rick figures it’s such a rare occasion that Daryl ought to choose. He has to will himself to look away from the _passion fruit_ though, with heat in his cheeks and sweat pooling on his palms, because that’s _not_ what that fruit entails, and Rick doesn’t even know if that’s the way this night’s going to go.

“Strawberry sounds all right,” says Daryl. He looks toward Rick for a quick nod of confirmation, before adding, “We oughta get a nice one this time. With all the fixings. Can afford one now.” And that’s as close to a _beam_ as Rick’s ever seen him come.

“I can’t let you—” Rick starts, before Daryl growls, “You ain’t gonna _let_ me do anythin’, Rick. This one’s on me. Think we used enough of your sister’s hush money back in the day.”

And Rick can’t argue with that, especially when Daryl’s stubborn like this, digging his heels in to have his way, so when the waitress swings by with a _what can I do ya for_ , Daryl makes their order—an extra large strawberry parfait, with a second helping of strawberry sauce, along with the Finer Diner’s signature flakey wafers.

It’s when she asks, “Will that be to stay or to go?” in a way that’s entirely too familiar that Rick looks up, actually _looks_ , and it’s Donna, the very same, with grey in her curls but the same smile and fond tilt to her brow. She hasn’t aged as well as the diner, but it’s evident that she doesn’t buy into the facelifts and transformations the diner’s undergone, and looks all the more naturally beautiful for it. Rick had heard she’d become part-owner of the diner a few years back, which explained why she hadn’t been out to wait tables for a while, so _something’s_ warranted a special appearance, something _important_ —

“To, uh. To stay,” Rick says, catching Daryl’s eye. It strikes Rick then that there’s been a reversal here, one he hasn’t been entirely aware of until now. Because it used to be Rick who’d make their order, and Daryl who’d get it for them to _go_ , and something in him now’s fixated on the word _stay_ , like he’s hoping that’s just what Daryl will do this time. 

_Stay_. 

Donna gives Rick a look that’s soft and understanding, one that says, _Oh, Rick_ , like he’s pinned his heart to his sleeve, baring his thoughts for all the world to see. 

He’s come here every now and then with Robin and her kids, but it’s probably the first time he’s come in with anything remotely resembling a date, and Rick’s sure that’s what her look means, until she glances at Daryl too, and the corners of her mouth tilt upward for a smile that’s as wide as the sun is bright.

“The fixings are on the house tonight,” Donna declares, before she leaves with their order. “I’ll get the cook to throw in a little somethin’ for you, too!”

Rick’s pretty sure she’s slipped their order in at the top of the list, because it’s no more than a few minutes before their parfait arrives, layers of creamy vanilla soft-serve topped with glazed strawberries and just the right amount of strawberry syrup. And along with the perfect rolls of crisp wafers, far more than there should be, there’s a tiny wedge of toasted waffle as a garnish this time, cut into the shape of a heart. As Rick looks up to catch Donna’s eye, she gives him a very obvious wink from behind the kitchen doors that has Rick blushing again, right down to his toes.

“So,” Rick says, digging a spoon into the side of their parfait, “what happened after you left? And what finally brought you back to town?” He fights the anxious hitch in his breath as he adds, “You just passin’ through?”

Until now, they’ve simply traded easy conversations on the safe topics, but now that they’re properly seated and the ambience is just right, Rick has to know why Daryl’s here, and where he’s been, because Rick’s missed him so _much_. But that’s far too much sentiment to pour out all at once, so when he’s asked what he’s needed to, he keeps his silence and lets Daryl talk. 

Daryl shakes his head and scowls at _passing through_ , like it’s the very opposite of what he intends to do. 

“That day, at the playground,” he starts, snagging a strawberry and chewing on it thoughtfully. “Had to leave in a hurry after Merle came and got me. Turned out my old man owed a lotta people a lotta money—all the debts from drinkin’ and gamblin’ finally caught up to him, I guess—and the money from the insurance for our house? Wasn’t even _close_ to enough for all that.” He sighs. “Went out to the mountains a few hours out from here. He had a shitty little shed he called a huntin’ cabin, and that’s where we stayed.” Daryl’s shoulders slump the smallest bit. “Wasn’t a home, but it was all we had.”

Rick nods, processing this information. Then Daryl had only been hours away, all this time. Except that was still _far away_ , when you were young and had no means of transport. “And what’d you do in all that time?” Twenty years is a long time to be away, and Rick’s dying to know what it is Daryl’s been doing out in the backwoods of Georgia. 

Daryl breathes out, long and slow, a sigh more than anything. “It was just Merle and me most of the time. And when he wasn’t in and out of juvie, I followed him. Did what he did. Said what he told me to. Mighta gone down the same road as him too, straight to jail, if it hadn’t been for our old man kickin’ the bucket.” There’s the longest pause, before Daryl lowers his voice, like this secret, this truth, is something he only dares share with Rick. “But I’m free of ‘em now,” he says. “Finally _free_.”

Rick pitches his voice low to match Daryl’s. “How?” he asks. 

There’s a part of him that wants to reach out for Daryl. To take his hand and squeeze, warm, because Daryl doesn’t trust easily, or at _all_ , and for him to just tell Rick these things means that Rick’s still had his trust, all these years. And Rick wants to show him, _somehow_ , that he’s thankful he’s still got this privilege. He lets his fingers wander closer to Daryl’s, careful, relieved when Daryl doesn’t move away.

“It was probably the drinkin’ that did my old man in,” Daryl admits. “After that, it was just me and Merle. And when Merle left to enlist in the army, well…” Daryl shrugs. “Figured their last hold on me was gone. Thought I’d make a clean break from that shack in the mountains and head here. For a new start.” He takes in the worried look on Rick’s face, the knit of his brow, and maybe he’s misinterpreted it as disapproval, because he adds, “Rick, I ain’t proud of some of the things I did after I left, but—”

Rick reaches out now and takes Daryl’s hand like he’s wanted to, just a light touch of reassurance. “Hey, no,” he says. “Those things you did? They don’t matter anymore.”

He’s sure he can guess some of those things, but Daryl often did what he had to, to make it by, to _survive_ , even if that included surviving his brother and father. And if Daryl wants to tell him about all of it one day, so much the better. But for now, it’s on Rick to banish those demons for him, to tell him it’s all _right_ , because Daryl gets to come back from that. 

“What matters is that you’re here _now_ ,” says Rick. “You’re the one makin’ decisions for you now. Not them.”

He lets his hand shrink back, to keep the touch casual and friendly. But then Daryl’s reaching back, closing the distance between them again, like Rick’s touch is all the encouragement he needs, to tell the story he hasn’t told anyone. His palm is so incredibly _warm_ against the back of Rick’s hand that it feels like a straight shot of heat to Rick’s heart, warming him from the inside out.

“Decisions,” Daryl echoes, nodding thoughtfully, before deciding to clarify just what decisions he’s made for himself. “Anyway, uh. Got a call for a job back here in town,” he continues. “Well, ‘job’, for a friend of a friend, at his garage here. So I packed my things and came back. Been here a week.”

“You’ve been here a _week_?” Rick exclaims. “I didn’t hear anythin’ about you comin’ back. And Robin, she’s a one-woman gossip grapevine—she didn’t say anythin’ about you either!” Rick ducks his head, a little embarrassed by his outburst. Still, a thing like Daryl coming to town, a stranger, tall, dark and handsome would’ve registered on Robin’s radar _instantly_. “We coulda met up sooner, and—”

“Ain’t like I wanted to make an announcement that a Dixon was back in town,” Daryl says evenly. “That ain’t a name I wanna sling around in these parts, you know?”

Rick nods, because as disappointed as he is that he didn’t hear of Daryl’s return earlier, there’s sense in what he did. Who knew how much of Will Dixon’s awful legacy had been left behind? How much of his debt Daryl would have to carry? No, Daryl’s return, quiet and without fanfare, had been the right decision, as much as it pains Rick to admit it.

Still, it hurts something in Rick’s chest that Daryl can’t even be proud of his own last name, though he _just_ manages to keep from saying _You could be a Grimes. Wouldn’t need to worry about a thing_. But holy hell, that’s jumping way ahead of himself, and Rick has to clear his throat to keep himself in check. 

“Hey,” Rick says instead. “You don’t ever have to be ashamed with _me_. Don’t ever have to pretend you’re somethin’ that you’re not.” 

It earns him a small twitch of a smile from Daryl. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.” 

Rick finds himself returning the smile, and Daryl opens his mouth as if there’s something he wants to add, to elaborate on, but then Rick’s cleared his throat again and said, “So, you were sayin’ somethin’ about that job?”

Daryl shrugs. “Friend of a friend needed someone who could fix motorcycles in his garage. Don’t know if you know Aaron?” When Rick nods, a vague memory of Aaron and his car garage over on Durham returning, Daryl adds, “He’s got a spare studio apartment he ain’t usin’, so he set me up with that for now.”

There’s a pause between them, while Rick digests this new information—so Daryl was here to _stay_ , then—before Daryl says, “Rick, I tried to look for you. Once I found my feet again, I—” 

And Rick knows then that his disappointment had been clear on his face earlier, from the knowledge that if Daryl had been back in town for a week already, _why hadn’t he looked for Rick?_

“I wasn’t…” Rick tries, caught, as he flounders for words. “Daryl, that’s not what I…Look,” he says finally, trying hard to work the furrow of hurt out of his brow, “I know lookin’ for me couldn’t have been high on your list of—”

“ _No_ ,” Daryl says, firmly. “You oughta know.” He squeezes Rick’s hand. “I _know_ that look, man, and I’m tellin’ you now, you were the _first_. _You_ were the priority.”

And the thought that Rick would have been the first, rated the highest on Daryl’s _To-Do_ list—Rick reins himself in before his mind dives straight into the gutter again—warms something inside Rick, the way hot cocoa spreads like wildfire through his body on a cold day. “I was?”

“You were,” Daryl says with the utmost conviction, before deflating, his shoulders hunching inward. He lets his hand slip away, as if the fact that he _hadn’t_ found Rick, despite all his efforts, means Daryl has no right to touch him, to keep holding on, and Rick laments the loss of their contact with the softest sigh.

“Didn’t have much luck, then, I guess,” says Rick. He knows it would’ve been hard, looking for one person in a town that’s grown all around them, with people coming and going as the years went by. 

“Well, I didn’t have the first clue _how_ to look for you,” Daryl says. He shakes his head. “Didn’t have no last name to track you down, ‘cause I didn’t think to ask you before I left. Tried askin’ around after you too, but maybe folks ‘round here wanna protect their own. From them unsavoury types like me.” His laugh is a touch bitter, but when Rick reaches out and squeezes Daryl’s arm, because he thinks Daryl is _plenty_ savoury, Daryl nods and goes on, even if his voice is too quiet, too small. “Went to the playground, thinkin’…if our promise still mattered to you, if you still remembered, you’d be there. But I knew it was a long shot.” He fiddles at the long-handled spoon. “I _knew_.”

Rick draws in a tight breath; he’d walked by the playground a few times, too, on his way home from work, stopping every now and then to read there until the sun went down. So it’s evident now that for the last week, they’d just been missing each other, by hours, or even minutes. “What changed?” he asks.

Surely something different had happened, or they might’ve gone _on_ just missing each other, maybe even for the rest of their lives, and that’s not a comforting thought at all.

Daryl seems to sense this, and he reaches out to squeeze Rick’s hand, gentle, this time letting his palm settle for longer against warm skin. 

“Was doin’ a grocery run today, ‘cause the fridge was empty,” Daryl says, snorting. “Except for a couple cans of old ass beer, and broccoli from who knows what decade. And at the cashier’s, when I was payin’ for things, picture of these two kids dropped outta my wallet.”

Rick groans, pretty sure he knows where this story’s headed. Robin must’ve been the cashier on till when Daryl had gone grocery shopping, and knowing her sharp tongue, they’re lucky they’re sitting here together, instead of Daryl being run out of town, or worse. He nods at Daryl to continue, though.

“Yeah, it was your sister,” Daryl says, huffing a laugh. “I usually keep the picture tucked away safe, but receipts musta knocked it loose somehow. Anyway, she asked me if those were _my_ kids. You know. All that small talk shit people seem to like.”

Rick knows all about that, having to deal with a lot of ‘small talk shit’ every day, from his buddies at the station to the people who come in to file reports, and he’s glad that with Daryl, he’ll hardly have to do any of that. “Yeah,” he says, nodding.

“Said they weren’t mine,” Daryl continues, “’cause it was the truth. And she gave me the stink-eye like you wouldn’t _believe_. Said I oughta get outta her store if I was some kinda pervert.” 

He laughs again when Rick rolls his eyes _so_ hard, because that sounds like Robin, all right. Rick’s going to have a _talk_ with her later about calling Daryl names like that, but for now, it can wait. For all Rick knows, Daryl could’ve had a photo of his nephews or nieces, much like Rick had one of Angus and Angie tucked in his wallet. But then he remembers that means Merle reproducing, and he can’t quite see that happening, so he just bites his lip, swallows down the laugh, and keeps on listening. 

“Anyway,” Daryl says hastily, like he’s hoping to gloss over the nastier details of his exchange with Robin, “guess she recognized somethin’ in the picture. Snatched it right outta my hand.” Rick sighs, remembering how often Robin had swiped what she wanted from Rick’s hands, whether it was food, a game, or one of the twins—if she wanted it, she took it. “And she says to me—she says to me, ‘why you got a picture of my baby brother in your—oh my _gawd_!’” Daryl squawks, his hands twirling in the air, his voice and gestures a perfect mime of Robin’s state of uncontrollable excitement. 

“A picture of _me_?” Rick blinks, after he’s had a laugh at how flawless Daryl’s impression of his sister is.

“Them pictures we took at the photo booth,” Daryl explains, when Rick looks at him, confused. “Of us makin’ silly faces and shit. There was a half a strip for me, and half for you.”

“Oh. _Right_ ,” Rick says, remembering. “Those ones. You kept them?” he adds, stunned. “Those stupid pictures of us—you _kept_ them.”

Daryl frowns. “Weren’t stupid to _me_.”

“No, of course not,” Rick says, laughing, though his voice breaks, just like something in his heart, because, god, of _course_ they weren’t. Rick had lost his ages ago, to an overzealous washing machine and its paired dryer that’d left the strip of photos a crumpled mulch in his overalls, his only real memento of Daryl gone forever. “So she recognized you then?”

“Well, she looked me over again, sayin’ ‘you’re that Dixon kid, aren’t you—Daryl, right?’. Was gonna ask her how she knew, but she just laughed and said, ‘I’ve only been hearin’ Rick yammerin’ on about you for, oh, the last billion _years_ ’.”

Rick’s pretty sure the flush that’s burning his cheeks is here to stay now. Robin and her big mouth. _Damn it_.

“In the end,” Daryl says, “she told me she’d take care of this. Said to be at the playground at a certain time, and that you—” Daryl’s voice catches in his throat, which is so unlike him, because Daryl’s never at a loss for words. He says what he means and means what he says, so _this_ is new. “That you’d be there,” Daryl says finally, after he’s taken a moment for a hard swallow of his own.

Rick wishes he could make his mouth work, this instant, but there aren’t words for how _grateful_ he was for that moment on the playground. And he can tell Daryl has things he wants to say too, needs to get _out_ , so he lets him, and just keeps on listening. Lets his fingers creep toward Daryl’s on the table, and stay there this time, just settling on his, for a squeeze of encouragement and reassurance. 

Daryl squeezes back, like he’s thankful for the touch. “Saw you there, sittin’ on the bench, watchin’ them kids play,” he says. “Took me a while to get up the nerve and sit by you, though, and by then, you were readin’. Made it easier, I guess. Except I didn’t know what to say, or do, or _nothin’_.” He looks away, not daring to meet Rick’s eyes. “Thought them kids were yours. That you’d gotten married and…thought I was too late.”

No wonder the tension had gone out of Daryl’s shoulders when Angus and Angie had called him _Uncle Rick_. And Rick doesn’t even have to ask what Daryl thought he’d been too _late_ for, because a part of him knows what Daryl means, and it doesn’t surprise Rick that he’s wanted the same thing too. 

“I wished for you,” Rick says instead, honesty bursting out of him unplanned. He swallows around the lump that’s forming in his throat, of hurt and wonder and for the most part, relief. “Every year, after you left. Wished on birthday cakes and shooting stars. Even saved up all my Christmas wishes so I could—” The lump in his throat’s far too big, and Rick has to swallow around it _again_. When he’s finally found his voice, he says, “I thought you’d forgotten our promise. Forgotten _me_.”

Daryl shakes his head. “Never had no birthday cakes to wish on. Or Christmases,” he says, matter-of-factly. Rick knows he wouldn’t have had any, growing up in the Dixon family, not with all the things he’s heard about Daryl’s father and brother as he got older. So these are events they’ll be having a lot _more_ of, if Rick’s got anything to say about it. “But I never forgot.” Daryl picks at a chip in the table, like he’s in the wrong here. “Just sorry I took so long, you know? To get back to you.”

Rick can’t have Daryl looking like this, utterly _dejected_ , now that they’ve finally found each other again. So he reaches out and tips Daryl’s chin up with forefinger and thumb, a new lightness in his chest just from Daryl’s truest words. “There’s nothin’ to be sorry for,” he says, giving Daryl his most reassuring smile. “Nothin’ at all.”

With the topic of just _how_ they’d manage to connect again out in the open, they’re able to move onto other topics, like what Rick’s been doing during the time they spent apart. Or what Daryl’s planning on doing once he’s got more money saved up.

And when Daryl mentions that he knows the woods of Georgia like the back of his hand now, dropping some not-so-subtle hints that he could take Rick out hunting or fishing sometime, Rick just laughs and nods, pleased to know that this meeting isn’t just a one-off, just a _catchin’ up on old times_ , but that it’s only the first of many. 

The hours slip away from them, just like they had during those hot, summer evenings when they were kids, and before long, Donna sidles up to ask them if they have any last orders, since it’s last call before the kitchen closes for the night.

“Think we’re all right,” Rick nods, and it’s only at Donna’s expression, the one where she’s trying to hide a smile of her own, that Rick realizes he’s smiling like a total goof. But this time he won’t need to hide it, because when he looks at Daryl, he can see the equally smitten smile reflected back at him. 

At least, that’s what Rick _hopes_ the tiny uptilt of Daryl’s mouth is.

They make the decision to leave before even Donna’s legendary patience with them wears thin, since they’re not planning on ordering anything else, and after Daryl’s settled the bill, he offers to walk Rick back to where he lives.

“That’s nice of you,” Rick grins. “You bein’ worried for my safety.”

“Gettin’ late,” Daryl says, shrugging, like that’s reason enough for his offer. “Should see you home, is all.” He’s not quite meeting Rick’s eyes as he says it though, and his cheeks are brushed red like he’s been standing in cold too long, even if tonight’s among the milder of their autumn nights.

Rick’s tempted to ask _you gonna kiss me good night, too?_ but decides that’s pressing his luck far too hard. Settles for Daryl falling into step beside him, their strides matching effortlessly, easy, like they’ve walked together like this for _years_.

When they come to a crossing, Rick pauses to wait for Daryl, who’s stopped momentarily to take in the new street signs, and shops, and everything that’s changed since he’d been here last. And when Daryl notices Rick perched on the edge of the curb, rocking on his heels, the corner of his mouth lifts into what Rick knows is a smile. “You can cross the street alone now, can’t you?” says Daryl. 

It’s a jab at the days when Rick had hung back at the intersections, afraid of the cars and of breaking Cardinal Rule Number One: No Crossing the Street By Yourself, until Daryl returned to lead him through.

Rick wants to rolls his eyes, but holds back. “Yeah,” he says, with an easy grin of his own. “But I won’t be alone now, will I?” He raises his eyebrows, giving Daryl a meaningful look.

“Not alone,” Daryl says, thoughtful, joining Rick at the curb. “Not ever,” he adds, quiet. “If…if that’s what you want.”

“That _is_ what I want,” Rick declares. As the light turns green, his hand brushes against Daryl’s, accidental and feather-light, but in an act that must take every ounce of _Daryl’s_ bravery, he takes Rick’s hand, just like he did when Rick was little. Laces their fingers together, gentle, giving Rick a look that’s hesitant and unsure. 

Giving him an _out_ , in case this isn’t what Rick meant. 

A bloom of affection bursts bright in Rick’s chest, because others had treated Rick like he was a secret, a shameful one, but Daryl taking his hand like this, not caring who could see, just touches him so deeply and so much.

Then Daryl’s arching a brow, like he’s still asking _is this okay?_ and Rick’s caught between a jumble of _yes, definitely, hell yeah_ before managing a tiny nod in response. Squeezes Daryl’s hand, tight, so he knows Rick wants this, more than anything.

It takes them a little less than ten minutes to make it to the block of flats where Rick’s living now, because he couldn’t, in good conscience, move halfway across town from his parents. But even if Daryl’s nice enough to see him to the door, it still feels like their night’s come to an end far too quickly. 

“Well, this is me,” says Rick, gesturing to the door of his flat. They’ve traded contact information, and he knows Daryl’s staying in a studio apartment nearby, so it’s not as if he’ll never see Daryl again. But it feels like he’s just got Daryl back, and Rick can’t bear for him to leave again so _soon_. 

“It was good seein’ you again,” Daryl offers. 

Rick had been ready to invite him in, for a drink, a snack, or maybe a little more catching up of the kind _Rick_ wanted to do. But Daryl’s words make it sound like he’s not interested in staying for long, and Rick won’t push for something Daryl’s not ready for. So he has to hold back the small, hurt sound that’s threatening to escape, because if there’s anything _good_ about this moment at all, about having to say goodbye to Daryl all _over_ again, it’s that Daryl still hasn’t let go of his hand.

“Yeah,” Rick says, nodding. “Maybe we should…” He makes a feeble motion with his other hand, at the phone he’s pulled out from his pocket. “You know.”

Rick’s hoping to stumble through the awkward mess of _maybe we should get together again_ and _when are you free_ , but before he can get the words out, Daryl’s walked Rick back against his door, hands braced on either side of Rick’s head. Gives Rick a second, two, to turn away if he wants, before he brings their mouths together, gentle.

It’s not hot and heavy and wet—just a light press of lips that’s warm and soft, with a hint of vanilla—but when Rick’s finished blinking, stunned, he surges forward, for a spit sandwich that’s twenty years overdue. Licks into Daryl’s mouth for more, for the taste of Daryl, and it’s no surprise when Daryl lets him, moving into their kiss with every fibre of his being in return. His right hand moves to tangle in Rick’s curls, tight, and his other moves to cup Rick’s cheek, like he can’t get enough of Rick, wants to touch and feel and caress every part of Rick he can reach. Like he’s not even sure _Rick’s_ real and here before him.

Rick, for his part, just clutches Daryl’s shoulders, holding on and holding tight, to anchor him here, to _Rick_ , because part of him fears that Daryl will disappear like smoke if he doesn’t. That Rick only gets this one night for all the times he’s wished Daryl back. That in the morning, when he wakes up, it’ll all have been a dream, and no one will know where Daryl’s gone, or who Daryl Dixon even _is_.

And Rick doesn’t know if he could take that—not after having Daryl back in his life, not after tasting the sweetness of his lips, having felt the warmth of his touch. 

“Don’t leave,” says Rick, when they finally break apart for air. He means _don’t leave me, not again, not ever_ , but the words won’t come, and Rick can’t seem to force them out, because they’re desperate, they’re _needy_ , even if they’re nothing but the truth. “Don’t leave,” he says again, gasping it, between one kiss and the next, and he isn’t begging, he _isn’t_ , he’s just—

Daryl seems to hear what’s in Rick’s heart regardless, and eases Rick’s hand off his shoulder. Knits their fingers together, tight, giving Rick the warmest feeling of _staying_ and _permanence_ and _forever_ that mere words can’t provide.

“I won’t,” Daryl says, solemn. “Not again. Not ever.” Then he breaks into a grin, the kind that’s wide and lovely and rare, that makes Rick’s heart skip a beat in his chest. “Think we oughta seal the deal with a couple more kisses, though, don’t you think?” He nods to the inside of Rick’s flat, and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Just to be sure.”

“Spit sandwiches,” Rick says, correcting Daryl, and laughs, a tremulous but happy sound as he tugs Daryl into his flat. 

And as Rick winds his arms around Daryl’s neck, to breathe his air, his scent, every proof of his life, he’s all too thankful to know that even if their first kiss had been a lifetime ago, it certainly won’t be the _last_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, the parfait Rick and Daryl share for their first date was inspired by these ones [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/tumblr_n17eecA2MJ1qegcl7o1_500.jpg~original) and [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/img56571872.jpg~original). Heart-shaped toasty waffles should totally be a thing. :3
> 
> And that’s a wrap for this fic! A big thank you to everyone who’s followed it from the beginning! And for those of you just joining now, thank you for giving this fic a try! I’ll see you all in the next Rickyl fic! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [eyeus](http://eyeus.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, if you want to chat about headcanons or send prompts my way!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Daryl and Rick's photos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6441289) by [barbiedoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbiedoll/pseuds/barbiedoll)




End file.
